Howlround
by frostygossamer
Summary: Summary: Sci-fi/Mystery AU - Two brothers, Sam and Dean, have a falling out and Sam winds up working on a remote research station in Antarctica. Cue UFO (Unidentified Frozen Object), mysterious deaths, and the Earth in deadly danger. A different treatment of the perennial 'The Thing (from Another World)/Who Goes There' situation. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1: Prelude

A/N: I've had this story on the back burner since Nov 2014, but 2015 has been a busy year for me. Finally I have managed to get it pulled together over the Christmas/New Year holidays. So here it is...

Summary: Sci-fi/Mystery AU - Two brothers Sam and Dean have a falling out and Sam winds up working on a remote research station in Antarctica. Cue UFO (Unidentified Frozen Object), mysterious deaths, and the Earth in deadly danger. A different treatment of the perennial 'The Thing (from Another World)/Who Goes There?' situation.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, its fandom, its characters or anything connected to them. I do not make money or profit in any way from this story.

Warnings: Sorry no slash, no romance this time. Bit of violence, murder, hero death. Nothing a T shouldn't cover.

~O~

Howlround (Chapter I: Prelude) by frostygossamer

Timeline: University of Kansas, Lawrence KA - Two months from today

Kevin Tran, boy genius - his mother's words - lays the shimmering feather back in its handmade bamboo case and snaps it shut with a sigh. He carefully places the deceptively simple box on top of the janitor's high-piled cart and watches dejectedly as the shaggy-haired custodian trundles it away to its allotted storage lock-up.

Fishing his cell phone from the pocket of his immaculately white lab-coat, Kevin calls his mother.

"Hi, Mom."

He has caught Mrs. Tran filling her insulated coffee cup right before leaving for work. She puts the phone on loudspeaker and continues pouring.

"Oh, hi, Kevin honey. How are things in Lawrence? Heard from the committee about your grant?"

Her son recently applied for a grant to finance his new research. Mrs. Tran was convinced he would get it. How could he fail? Her son is brilliant. But Kevin was very for from sure, with good reason.

The young guy sighs dramatically. "Yes, Mom, I heard. And no, Mom, I didn't get it."

Mrs. Tran spills hot coffee on the toes of her fancy new shoes, but she is too shocked to notice. Her voice lifts a few decibels.

"You DIDN'T get it? Did NOT get it?! Sweetie, do those people have ANY idea what they're doing? How could they NOT give you the money? Ugh! Kevin, you want me to fly out there and tell them-"

Her son cuts in before she can get up to full speed.

"I, uh, told them about the feather," he explains, apologetically. "Guess they thought it was some kinda joke. Bottom line, they closed down my lab."

Mrs. Tran growls in disgust. How could those dusty old fuddy-duddies at KU treat her genius son that way?

"Oh, Kevin, and your experiments were going SO well. Your father's inheritance is an authentic ANGEL feather, a genuine miracle. How could those short-sighted idiots not see that? Do they have NO imagination?"

Kevin sighs again. No, the stalwart members of the Grants Committee have little or no imagination. They deal in hard cash. Hard cash and scientific vision maybe, but certainly not magic.

He can't really blame them though. He was just as sceptical about the feather as they were, to begin with. When his test results turned out amazing, he had to concede there really WAS something to this.

The thing is, he only intended to subject the feather to one or two standard lab tests to get his stubborn matriarch off of his back. Who would have believed the alleged angel appendage she presented him with on his sixteenth birthday, the treasured heirloom handed down for generations through the Tran family, could really have, well, supernatural powers?

His mother believed it, but then she wasn't a scientist, merely a firm believer in all things Tran.

Empiricist Kevin was more than incredulous about the whole thing. Aside from the ancestral claims, how could it be an actual ANGEL feather? Seriously? Like angels exist? Ancestor Tran must have been totally trashed when he came up with that dumb fairytale.

So who would have guessed the fluffy item could have powers like it does? Who would have guessed it could even HAVE any? Certainly not Kevin. And evidently NOT the old guys who sign off on research grants.

"I showed the committee my initial results were ALL positive. Every one. But they said it had to be some kinda hoax, and if the press got wind of it, the university would be a laughingstock. Guess they DO have a point. It all sounded pretty screwy, even to me."

"Ha!" Mrs. Tran exclaims. "Those pea-brained pedants. Kevin, they don't know what they're letting go. You'd be such an asset to their silly little school. One day they'll be sorry they let you slip through their arthritic fingers."

Young Kevin is grateful for his mother's faith in him, but he has already talked through his disappointment enough for one day.

"Listen, Mom. I'll call you back later and you can tell me again how great I am. Right now I need coffee. It's been a rough morning."

Mrs. Tran's maternal smile beams down the phone line to her son. Kevin can almost feel its warmth on his cheek.

"OK, honey," she coos. "You go get coffee. I promise tomorrow things will look so much brighter. There must be SOMEONE out there who knows a good thing when they see it. The fight's not over yet. You got me in your corner." She makes a kissing sound down the receiver. "Bye, Kevin honey."

"Bye, Mom."

Her son terminates the call. He lied a little about getting coffee. What he really wants to do is go drown his dashed hopes in some bar in town. Then maybe he will go back to his place to crash out and snore like an inebriated walrus. He feels he deserves it.

His mother wouldn't understand.

~O~

Kevin finds his way to a fairly empty mainly student bar not far off campus where he selects a stool at the bar. He intends to pickle his liver in as much beer as his slight frame can hold.

He isn't much of a drinker, as a rule, but for some reason today the alcohol fails to completely rob him of his wits as it should. The best he can do is slump over his glass looking slightly wrecked and feeling unjustly mistreated. His whole shining academic future now looks bleak.

How could his ancestors have done this to him? Their simple superstition could have made him the butt of the entire University's ridicule, and all because of a stupid little cock-and-bull story handed down through his father's family.

"Dad, how could you have done this to me?" he mumbles into his beer.

Picture this. An early Tran ancestor, back in the old country, an honest salt-of-the earth type. He is driving his oxcart to market when the dumb beast literally stumbles into a dishevelled stranger, staggering along the track. The stranger has appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road and the startled ox knocks him flying into the dust.

The mortified farmer offers the dazed and lost-looking stranger a gratefully accepted ride to the nearest town. Once there, the stranger politely takes his leave and quickly vanishes, never to be seen again.

All that remains of old Tran's passenger is a single large, iridescent feather lying on the footboard of his cart. This fragile scrap of evidence proves to the farmer's superstitious mind his strange visitor had to have been some wandering messenger of heaven, or in western terms an angel, and the feather a gift bringing good luck.

"So where's all the luck when I most need it, huh?"

Kevin continues sitting there on his barstool muttering until the bar morphs into a nightspot and begins to get noisy, filling up with its regular evening patronage. At some point, the street door opens and in strolls a guy who is destined to change the young man's fortune.

A big fat guy in a Springsteen sweatshirt and cowboy boots.

~O~

Timeline: Winchester residence, Lawrence KA - Tomorrow

Dean Winchester unlocks his front door and flips the light switch. As expected, no one is in. Peachy.

Sexy desk clerk Carmen at long last packed up her crap and moved out yesterday. But only after Dean had spent an entire weekend calling everyone he could think of to locate a new place that met with her standards.

Hey, he is a gentleman when it comes to the ladies. He wasn't going to kick the chick out of his bed and into the gutter. She didn't bitch because that had always been the deal, right? Until she found an apartment? Yeah, well HE found the apartment and then SHE found it was time to go.

They will stay on good terms, for sure. Go for a drink once in a while, but not exclusive. At least Dean isn't. He never was. Sticking around was her idea not his, and he put up with her crap for quite a time. Only it needed to stop when he finally figured out she was one reason his brother Sam left for Antarctica. After he had promised Dean he would never do anything so dumb.

Was the big guy jealous? Well, he doesn't need to be. Sammy always comes first in Dean's book. Unhealthy maybe, but Dean is nothing if not an awesome big brother and that is how he rolls. Sam has got to see that eventually, right? Meanwhile, the kid can go spent a few months sulking in Antarctica if it makes him happy.

"Antarctica? Jeez! Could the dumb-ass get further away from me?"

Dean shrugs off his jacket as he walks in the kitchen. He hangs it on the back of a chair and opens the refrigerator, looking for a beer. After a long day in the repair shop he really needs some alcoholic refreshment. He glances at the cold, dewy bottle in his hand. Maybe he should take notice of his preachy brother and try cutting back on the sauce? Uh, tomorrow maybe.

He flops down on the couch in front of the TV and uses the remote to turn on the evening news. They are running the international roundup already. He catches the end of some item about an explosion and fire with what sounds like that Crocodile Dundee guy doing voice-over. Did the guy mention some place called Hobart? Dean has heard the name someplace.

Mildly curious, he takes his beer in the den and opens up his laptop to Google headlines, but notices he has a new email from Tasmania University. Huh?

Dean blanks for a moment before he remembers what he called the 'dumb-ass tree-hugger environmental crap' project his brother signed up for is run out of Tasmania University. Australia, right?

The email is from Sam and it has an audio attachment. Dean listens as he sips his beer.

"Hi, Dean," he hears Sam's familiar voice say. "First of all, uh, I'm sorry."

"You oughta be," comments Dean to himself.

"You do know I didn't mean what I said, right?" Nervous laugh. "Man, you weren't wrong. Antarctica is a bitch. At the risk of coming off like Dorothy, I'd rather be home in Kansas right now."

"Dude, I am NEVER wrong," agrees Dean.

"Remember how I whined about Dad sending me to that skeevy Summer Camp when I was eleven? Ten times as bad. Wish you would come get me like you did back then." Wistful sigh.

"Yeah sure." Dean chuckles at the memory. "Had your back, kid."

"I, uh, miss you, bro. Seriously. Guess I opened my big mouth and stuck my foot right in it." Awkward pause. "So, uh, well, Dean, if I don't hear from you I'll understand why, but please reply. I'm waiting, man."

The recording ends.

Dean sighs. He knew his brother would wind up regretting the day he walked out on him to get down with those dorky-ass penguins. And over a woman? Seriously? How could Sam NOT know Dean would NEVER let some chick come between him and his little brother. Come on now.

Maybe he should RSVP right away and put the guy out of his misery. Or maybe he should let him stew for a while. Oh yeah!

Ding-ding...

As he considers it, he hears a tinkle from his laptop. Another email has arrived and this one looks like it came direct from the administrator of Sam's Antarctic research project. Dean opens it unthinkingly and reads.

 ** _Dear Mr. D. Winchester_**

 ** _I'm sure by now you will have seen the news coverage of the recent incident at Huge Attraction ice-station, the base of our Antarctic research operations._**

 ** _You may already know an observation plane has been dispatched to reconnoitre the scene and directly report back on the situation as they find it._**

 ** _At present, we have no firm details about casualties. But please be assured we will keep you and the other emergency contacts informed of further developments as and when they emerge._**

 ** _Meanwhile, please accept my condolences._**

 ** _Yours sincerely,_**

 ** _Head of Antarctica Project_**

 ** _University of Tasmania_**

 ** _Hobart_**

Unable to take in any of this the first time through, Dean has to read the email again. And again.

"Casualties? Condolences? What the crap? What the freakin' crap?!"

Dean raises his beer bottle to his lips on autopilot but immediately puts it back down. Returning to the living room in a daze, he perches on the couch. He is staring blankly at nothing, his mind in a spin, when his cell phone starts to vibrate in his pants pocket. He pulls it out numbly.

On TV the news guys have switched back to their Australia correspondent. He is using his most serious voice. The tremor of the explosion registered in Tasmania, he says. The rosy glow of distant firelight can be clearly seen along the horizon. The Hobart University research base has been out of radio contact for several days, and without counter-communication, they can only assume the worst.

A recon team has been dispatched by airplane and will supply more details as soon as they become available. The channel's talking head suggests a methane explosion as a possibility. They could have hit a methane pocket while taking core samples, their expert believes. Dean is frozen in disbelief.

He speaks curtly into the phone. "Dean Winchester."

A pleasant female voice responds, her tone solicitous.

"Mr. Winchester, you've presumably seen the news by now? I'm speaking on behalf of our Antarctica research project here at the university in Hobart. Your brother was part of the project team, yes?"

"I, uh, sure," mumbles Dean.

"I just want to assure you, you and the other relatives, you WILL be updated the MINUTE we get ANY reliable information AT all. Unfortunately right now we're as much in the dark as you are. I'm sure we'll learn more when the observation aeroplane reports in."

He lets the phone drop from his limp hand onto the couch.

A distant tinny voice shouts, "Mr. Winchester? Are you still there?" a couple times before the line goes dead.

Dean stares straight ahead unseeing. This can NOT be real. No way. Not his Sam. Not in Antarctica. Not so far away from home.

"No. Freakin'. Way."

His mind is racing, grasping for an alternative explanation.

"They've been out of radio contact, right? That's it. They'll radio in soon and everything will be OK. Stupid mistake. Big laugh on the news guys."

Dean opens a cabinet and grabs a bottle of Jack. He twists off the lid and takes a long slug.

"Yeah, sure. Dumb-ass Aussies. Freakin' mess-up."

But they aren't and it isn't.

They cremate what remains of Sam and the others in Hobart and scatter his remains in a rose garden. Representatives from the university attend. Dean doesn't fly down because there isn't any point. He doesn't see a point in anything anymore. Sam was the only living thing he truly cared for. Without Sam, he is left aimless and hopeless.

Jeez, Dean isn't even a brother anymore. All he wants is to drown his memories in alcohol. Lots of it. And most of all, it breaks his heart be couldn't be there for Sam the one day the kid really needed him.

That one day. What he wouldn't give to change that? To have that one day back.

~O~

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station, Antarctica - Yesterday morning

On the other side of the world, deputy project leader Sam Winchester's day begins like any other working day of his sojourn on the lonely South Pole. Contrary to his brother's comments there is not one 'dorky-ass' penguin within miles. He has risen early to go out and check his meteorological equipment before sharing lunch with his team on base. Readings are pretty much as expected.

On his way back to the research station, he pauses to scan the horizon. Icy, bleak, lifeless and yet deeply mysterious, the wind-blown Antarctic snowfield stretches before him unblemished and untrodden by man. No sounds of life, only the disturbingly wolfish howl of the ever-present biting gale, winding round and round the low wood buildings of the station.

OW OOH... OH WHOO OH... OH OOH WOE...

He takes a deep breath, catching a little on the pure yet chilly air, and smiles inwardly.

Little does he know this day will be the penultimate day of his short life.

TBC

A/N: This is all written so I hope to update soon and regularly. Next chapter will begin Sam's story. What really happened?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Quiet Sunday here so I got this chapter checked over already. Sam's pov on Antarctica and flashbacks about his brother.

Howlround (Chapter II) by frostygossamer

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station, Antarctica - Yesterday morning

The deep, pure white drifts of snow entirely muffle the sound of Sam Winchester's heavy snow-boots as he plods doggedly toward the entrance of the administration block, the whistling gale fiercely lashing him with sharp crystalline H2O. Beautiful but cruel.

HOO... OH WOE WOO... WHOO... OOCH!

Dwarfed by the endless snowfield, the prefabricated admin block is the biggest structure in Huge Attraction. Sam sets down his cosmic-ray detector a moment to rub at his stinging cheek before opening the outer door with two heavily gloved hands. An escaping puff of semi-warm air caresses his wind-chapped face and it feels almost good.

Shouldering the detector bag again, he turns and seals the outer door before unlatching the inner. Six foot four in his stockinged feet, Sam's head nearly scrapes the low ceiling of the claustrophobic cabin. And, by unhappy contrast, the foul atmosphere inside slaps his face like a week-old jock-strap.

Home Sweet Home.

Eight sweaty men, housed together in a cramped wood shelter situated on the Antarctic ice shelf, don't exactly lend the place the delectable perfume of a sultan's harem. More like the reek of a wrestler's locker room. The only exception is the one female team member, microbiologist Ellen Harvelle. A handsome woman of forty summers, give or take, she always smells of violets and roses.

Sam makes a mental note to visit with Ellen later and borrow a spritz of her fancy scent for his pillow. Maybe then at least he can sleep sweetly. Although a splash of his brother's favourite cologne would probably be homier.

He shuffles through to the mess hall where several of the guys are sitting around jawing and swigging mugs of the filthy black goop their project leader, no-nonsense Samuel Campbell, calls coffee. Pulling off his snow-goggles, Sam scans the room. He can see Ellen and explosives specialist Rufus Turner remain out on site getting their core samples. Husky and gruff snowcat mechanic Walt took them out there earlier.

Sam notices Ellen's assistant, lab tech Gordon Walker - for some reason that guy rubs Sam up the wrong way - is playing a quiet hand of poker with the other snowcat mechanic, Walt's cousin Roy, a guy with the personality of a Neanderthal. A couple douchebags Sam could live without.

The two caterpillar track vehicles are the team's only means of transport. No sleds or sled-dogs on the base any more, so it is important the snowcats be kept in good working order. Consequently, Walt and Roy spend a lot of their time in the garage, situated in a Quonset hut adjacent to the main buildings.

Physicist Bobby Singer, also the designated radio operator, doesn't seem to be around either. Which isn't surprising since the guy has been kept busy the past week working on their temperamental long-range radio equipment. Nor is old man Campbell, for that matter.

Sam glances around the room, mentally checking off each man. He spots the team surgeon, diminutive Dr. Crowley, hanging out at the coffee corner. He seems to be messing with the fixings.

"You look like you could do with a refreshing drop of Rosie Lee." Crowley grins, as Sam comes over. "Just made myself a brew. Want a cuppa?"

Sam accepts a mug of tea from the abrasive physician, assuming it can't be any worse than the coffee. His first sip makes him splutter uncontrollably. Though good and hot, Crowley's brew is ridiculously strong.

"What we'd call a Builder's, Sam," the sawbones chortles. "Stand your spoon up in it, me laddo. If it doesn't melt the bloody thing, that is. Put lead in your bloomin' pencil."

He laughs, mostly to himself, while Sam humours him with a fake chuckle. The doctor was hired to keep them all fit and sane out here in the middle of icy nowhere. He has his work cut out with the sane part. Even he is showing signs of crumbling under the dreary monotony of life at the frigid South Pole. For example, the bizarre faux-Cockney accent is new. When they first arrived Sam assumed he was Scottish.

"What's gotten into you?" asks Sam. "Been mainlining 'Mary Poppins'?"

Crowley scoffs bubbles into his tea.

At least the guy is getting paid for this. For their sins, everyone aside from the good doctor, and including Sam, is a volunteer. All environmental activists, they have been tasked with probing the ancient ice repository for a worthy ecological project run at arm's length by the University of Tasmania. The doc is in this for cash.

"Think I'll give this a pass. I need a hot shower."

Setting down his mug, Sam shambles off to his quarters to take a shower and maybe get some warmth back in his worn out body. Doc Crowley calls after him.

"And you'll be glad to hear the effing hot water's on the blink again."

Sam groans at his sarcastic chuckle.

~O~

The cramped sleeping quarters are Sam's only private space in the whole research station, aside from a tiny corner of the Project Leader's office where he does his paperwork. Like everyone else he has scarcely enough room for a single cot, a night table for personal items and a locker for clothes. Even so the modicum of privacy that affords is more than welcome.

He exhales a relieved breath as he enters his room. Ripping apart Velcro strapping and closures, he shrugs out of his stiff, wet outdoor wear and strips down to his thermal undershorts. The shorts are damp with perspiration and stick to his flesh like a second skin. He slides them off, balls them in his fist and launches them into a basket in the corner. He can wash them later.

Released from the sweaty confines of heavy and not so breathable layers, Sam's height gains another inch at least. He stretches his long lean body and tired back, rotating his head to flex his aching neck muscles, catching a peek at his own reflection in the mirror on his locker door.

"Hi there, pasty kid."

The mirror shows Sam his all-over tan has already faded. Only his face remains bronzed, burned by the unfiltered Antarctic sunshine reflected starkly from unforgiving whiteness, pale rings around his eyes from the snow-goggles. Sighing, he throws on a robe, shoves his feet into thong sandals and makes his way to the base's shower facility.

~O~

The basic washroom boasts a single shower stall so small Sam's tall, broad frame can barely fit inside. Hanging his robe on a hook by the door, he kicks off his sandals and steps in the cubicle. He turns the creaky faucet all the way on and tries to relax as the pitiful excuse for a trickle of lukewarm water slides over his naked body. At least his feet are warming up a little as it puddles pathetically in the shower tray.

Closing his eyes, he idly rubs a bar of harsh, antibacterial soap back and forth over his achy muscles, across his shoulders, down his chest, over his belly and around the tight globes of his butt.

It tingles, but not in a good way. Too much hygiene, not enough bubbles. How he misses the enveloping steam of his brother's roomy walk-in power-shower back in Kansas. Jeez, how he wishes he could be back there right this minute. But the last time he took advantage of his brother's hospitality is not his greatest memory.

Sam's mind drifts back to that final visit to Lawrence.

~O~

Timeline: Winchester residence - Six months ago

Sam stands at the front porch of his brother Dean's house feeling pleased with himself. He is back a couple days earlier than he expected. Peruvian customs were more accommodating than usual and he even managed to bum a seat on a private airplane part way home. Dean is going to be stoked.

That is how Lawrence feels to Sam, even now. Home.

Lawrence is the town he grew up in and the town where his brother has always lived. Not that Sam has maintained a regular domicile in the USA since college. There isn't much point when he spends most of every year abroad on one ecological project after another. This place is the nearest he gets.

College was Stanford and Stanford was where he got into the eco-warrior kick. Jessica, his pretty college years girlfriend, was very much into the environment and Sam was very much into her. That was almost a decade ago, and he hasn't seen her in years, but a love for Planet Earth has remained with him.

Between gigs, Sam always crashes with his brother. They get along fine, mostly, aside from Dean being kind of a jerk sometimes. The elder Winchester isn't exactly into the environment. As a skilled mechanic and big aficionado of the internal combustion engine, he is pretty much enabling the problem. They have duked it out verbally on occasion, but they pretty much agreed to differ a long time ago.

Sam can't blame his brother though, because the guy was earning a good living from repairing classic cars even before Sam went to college. He started as a teenager working on the Impala their dad gave him, the car he continues to drive to this day. The job fed and clothed Sam after they lost both their parents, before Sam even went green.

Big brother Dean has kept a bed for Sam at his place since he bought his very first two-room apartment. Now Dean owns five repair shops and an awesome house in the suburbs with a pool out back, and he won't hear of Sam staying anyplace else. The younger Winchester anticipates a warm welcome as he buzzes big brother's doorbell.

Today is Sunday so he knows Dean should be home. Sam looks forward to catching up whenever he is passing through, but this year he has something more to discuss with his brother. His big news? He has decided to give it up, pack in the eco-warrior life and start to put down roots.

After almost a decade of dedication to the cause, he thinks he has done his bit. He means to move back to Kansas and he hopes his brother will be glad to have him back for good. But will he?

Dean lives alone. Despite being something of a catch, successful in business and handsome as all get-out, Sam's elder brother has never shown any real interest in getting tied down. He is more of a casual womanizer, suspicious of chicks with their eye on his bank balance, preferring to remain footloose and play the field. Sam suspects he will always be that way and will likely die a lifelong bachelor.

Having never been too lucky in love himself, his relationships generally lasting only as long as his assignments, Sam has come to see old bachelorhood as his destiny also. He only hopes Dean doesn't think having his kid brother around permanently will cramp his carefree lifestyle. Today he means to sound Dean out.

He presses the bell again, noticing his brother doesn't seem to be responding to its summons with his usual speed. To his surprise the door is opened not by Dean but by an attractive brunette in a yellow bikini, a jungle-print sarong slung around her shapely hips.

"Hi." She takes a sip from a highball glass filled with jiggling ice cubes and some neon green cocktail.

Sam stands mute for a second before he stammers, "Oh, hi. I'm, uh, Sam. Dean home?"

He cranes his neck to look inside. He can hear muffled laughter and the clink of glasses coming from the kitchen.

"Sam?" The girl flashes him a smile. "Ah, the wandering brother returns. I'm Carmen. Come on in while I call Dean. He's out back. We're having a staff cookout."

Sam follows her in the house. There seems to be some kind of party going on. Guests are gathered in the kitchen, the back door stands open and Sam glimpses more partygoers outside, gathered around the pool. Carmen leans out the door and calls Dean's name. He comes in directly, wiping his greasy hands on a Batman apron. A joke apron? On Dean?

Seeing his brother, Dean marches right up and slaps his hands on Sam's shoulders, grinning brightly. A little awkward. As a rule there would be a big hug scene after so many months apart, but not now. Not in front of staff. And not with Carmen immediately trying to drape herself all over him.

Sam is taken aback by how suburban this all seems. Dean never does this. Maybe he would buy the guys a couple friendly beers in a local bar, but Sam has never seen him playing genial host to his employees. It seems, frankly, kind of patronizing. So NOT Dean.

Dean notices his befuddlement and guides him toward the stairs.

"Hey, Sammy. You've had a long journey. Why don't you go freshen up then come back down here and join the party?"

"Yeah, you come join in the fun, Sammy," shouts Carmen, over Dean's shoulder.

Sam winces inwardly. Everyone calls him Sam. Only Dean gets a permit to Sammy him. But he nods dumbly, and with a tight smile in Carmen's direction, he makes his way upstairs to the guest bedroom that has always been his when he is in town.

Until now.

~O~

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station - Yesterday morning

After ten minutes the meagre supply of hot water is already gone and Sam's mind snaps back to Antarctica. He is as warm as he is going to get. Grabbing his robe, he hurries back to his room and drags on thermal underwear under jeans. He adds a thick flannel shirt, an official issue one with his name sewed on over his left pec like they all wear.

He hopes the guys have left him something hot to eat and he won't have to make do with cold field rations yet again. Jeez, what he wouldn't give for some of his brother's robust man-cooking? His stomach rumbles at the memory.

Only yesterday Sam sent his brother Dean a wire. Personal messages from the team have to be relayed through the university on Tasmania. This is the station's only means of contact with the outside world.

Not exactly private communication but it IS worth it to reach out, once in a while, to loved ones back home in civilization. Sam has bridges to build with his big brother and he is hoping there will be a reply from Dean waiting in the radio shack. That is, if Dean is speaking to him yet.

~O~

On his way back to the mess hall, Sam calls in at the radio shack to see how Singer is doing with his repairs. He finds the older man hunched over the disassembled radio equipment, along with Project Leader Campbell.

Sam leans in the door. "How's it going?"

Both men groan. Singer tosses some burned-out and damaged beyond repair components on the table and grumbles.

"It's a write-off, Sam. Been acting up since last Tuesday and now it's turned up its freakin' toes. Thought I had it working last night but something inside here seems to have had some kinda meltdown."

"So no personal messages?"

"Nuh-uh. Sorry, Sam. The last successful message to go out was your wire home. Big fat zero incoming since then. Nothing for it but to wait for the regular supply plane from Tassie next week. I radioed them to bring spares before this bunch of crap finally folded. Prayed this crock would hold up till then. Looks like I was expecting too much."

Sam nods. The university sends an airplane over to Huge Attraction from Tasmania every month to bring them food, fuel and other necessities and take away their non-biodegradables, weather permitting. But it isn't due back until next Monday at the soonest.

Campbell humphs and straightens up.

"Yeah, well, seems we're gonna be out of contact with the mainland for a while, Sam. Guess we proceed as normal until we can get the replacement parts. No big deal."

Sam agrees. He doesn't like being out of touch with the world outside, nor does anyone, but there isn't much they can do about it. It WOULD happen though, right when he is waiting on a reply to his wire.

That is if Dean will even reply after the exchange they had before Sam left Kansas.

~O~

Timeline: Winchester residence - Six months ago

Sam opens Dean's best guest room door to discover the room is already in use. A woman's colourful clothing hangs in the closet, panties in the drawer, make-up on the dresser. Carmen's? Probably. Certainly not his brother's. It looks like Sam has been downgraded.

He closes the door quietly and goes instead to the third best bedroom, a smaller room at the back of the house. It is normally used to store Dean's unused crap, but it does have a bed. He picks his way through the inevitable impulse-buy fitness equipment, plunks his duffel bag on the comforter and sighs. There have been big changes chez Dean since he was last around and he suspects Carmen may be the perpetrator. If he isn't careful he will wind up not liking her one bit.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Sam reluctantly makes his way back downstairs and merges with the crowd around the pool. Dean is manning the big-boy's-toy grill and is thus constantly surrounded by hungry males. Carmen is swanning around playing hostess like she owns the place. Sam realizes she is looking more and more like she is maybe Dean's for-real girlfriend. A first for Dean, since high school anyways. The guy generally likes to play the rolling stone. Carmen must be a very special lady.

He sits down on the backdoor step with a beer and reconsiders his future. If his brother is serious about this girl, serious enough for her to be moving in with him permanently, he is going to have to rethink his plans. He truly does NOT want to be a third wheel. He is better than that.

After a couple hours the party starts to wind down and guests begin to drift off homeward. Dean smothers the grill and joins his brother on the step, beer in hand. He takes a long swig before speaking.

"So how was Peru?" He stares off into the dimming sun.

Sam chuckles. "Excelente. And how's married life?"

Dean blanches. "Dude, Carmen works the front desk at the main shop," he hastily explains. "She's strictly temporary."

"Have you told HER that? She seems to have other ideas."

Dean shrugs and runs a hand through his hair.

"She's new in town. I promised I'd give her a roof till she finds someplace reasonable to rent."

"Man, I'll bet that's not all you're giving her." Sam wriggles his eyebrows.

Dean laughs and sips from his bottle. "She knows the score."

Sam nods. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn't. He thinks she is sure to have her own views about which way things are likely to go. In her place, he knows he wouldn't be letting a guy like Dean get away too easily. He takes a pull of his own beer.

"Does she?" he murmurs. Is he being a bitch here? "She's a nice kid, Dean. You could do worse."

The girl does seem to be totally into Dean. Maybe it IS time the guy settled down? Maybe this time things will work out for him? Maybe Sam SHOULD be moving on again? He starts picking at the label on his beer bottle.

"Guess I'm gonna accept that Antarctic research station post, Dean."

Sam has mentioned the place on offer at the Huge Attraction ice-station before, but he let Dean talk him out of going so far away for so long. Dean hasn't forgotten his opinion on that. His brows crease into a frown.

"Jeez, Sam, that's eighteen months in the ass-end of noplace. Eighteen months in some freakin' igloo with diddly-squat but a superannuated CB radio for company."

Sam snorts. "There'll be a whole team of dedicated environmental scientists for company, Dean. The facilities are supposed to be 'comfortable'. It's gonna be educational and, uh, rewarding and they want me as deputy project leader. Man, I'm gonna do this."

He is talking himself into it now. Maybe the Frozen South won't be such a bad idea after all.

Dean isn't convinced. "Sammy, Antarctica is the underbelly of the freakin' world. It's a dead continent for a reason. It'll be one helluva long-ass wait till I get to see you back home again. And I can't-"

He catches himself. Dean really doesn't like his brother to know how he counts the days until the big dummy returns from whatever hell on Earth he has been holed up in this time. He doesn't want Sam to know how much he misses him when he is not around.

Sam is the only family Dean has left since their parents died, and he practically brought the kid up himself, but that doesn't give him the right to guilt-trip the guy into staying home. He has always believed Sam needs his freedom and it is his duty as big brother to let him fly, no matter how much it hurts.

Setting down his beer, Sam stands up, pointedly staring off into the distance.

"You're gonna have a good long wait, Dean, 'cause I won't be coming back here when it's over. Time I let you get on with your life and I get on with mine. Not a kid anymore and I don't need you to momma-bear me." He sighs and continues more quietly, "As a matter of fact, I don't really need you at all."

That remark is calculated to sting. Severing old ties is never easy, but at least it can be quick.

Dean is aghast. Did Sam call him a Momma Bear? He is baffled. And what? Get on with his life? What life would Dean have without his brother's visits to look forward too? The idea is impossible. And not need him? Crap! Now that is something Dean has been dreading to hear for a long time, but hearing the words straight from his brother's mouth cuts him to the bone.

"Sammy?!" he gasps, jumping up, his beer bottle rolling forgotten down the steps.

"No, Dean. We both need to grow up and move on." Sam shakes his head. "I'll be leaving tomorrow."

He marches back in the house and up to his tiny room. He leaves Dean open-mouthed, but he is sure he is doing the right thing. Time for a clean break.

Dean continues to stand staring after him. He wants to run after his brother, but yeah, like that would work. Sam can be a bull-headed ass and he is right, after all. Perhaps it IS time Dean cut the cord. It has been getting a tad overstretched lately. And he doesn't want to look needy. He would lose what little respect the kid has for him. If he has any.

"We'll, uh, talk about this," he calls. "Over breakfast, yeah?"

But Sam has disappeared upstairs.

After a fitful and somewhat guilt-ridden night's sleep, Sam re-packs his bag and leaves the house before anyone else stirs. He pauses on the front porch, takes his official key to Dean's front door from his pocket, juggles it in his hand a moment then pops it through the mail slot.

Shouldering his duffel bag, he heaves a deep, sad sigh and walks away without looking back.

TBC

A/N: Oh dear! Sam walked away never to return. No wonder Dean feels terrible. More soon.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Things are going to turn a little 'Thingie' now.

Howlround (Chapter III) by frostygossamer

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station - Yesterday noon

Arriving in the station mess hall, Sam is relieved to find a place set for him at the table between Walker's and Singer's. Walker is helping himself to yet another ladleful of steaming lentil stew as Sam eases into the rather narrow plastic stacking chair. These damn things were not designed for big guys like him.

"Hey! Easy there, hog-belly," grouches Singer, snatching the ladle from Walker's hand. "Leave some for the latecomers, why don't ya."

Walker mutters under his breath and grabs a handful of saltine crackers before scuttling off with his dish back to Ellen's lab. Singer chuckles as he quickly serves himself then passes the big server to Sam.

"Here you go, Sam. Eat up. You'll be needing this after working outside all morning."

Sam inhales the scent of the hearty vegetable stew. It smells delicious. He fills his bowl and passes the ladle on before tasting a mouthful. Good, yes, but something is missing. Dean would have surely added a man-sized dash of cayenne. Yeah, and meat too, obviously. Dean doesn't approve of Sam's vegetarian tendencies. He chuckles at the thought.

He is had several frosty months to reconsider why he quarrelled with his brother. Down here on the ice sheet things no longer seem so black and white. He badly wants to tell Dean he is sorry. So, sure, Dean may be part of a couple now. Well, Sam can work around that, right? Carmen is not so bad and he can be gallant. Hey, maybe she even has a sister?

Hopefully Dean won't simply delete his message when he sees the university's name in the 'From' column of his email client. Sam thought long and hard about what he should say to his brother in that message, but he could only come up with something lame, if heart-felt. He hopes Dean can read between the lines and get that he is sincere. He did try to make it light-hearted, fake a joke of it all. Maybe Dean can fake it too.

Then again, there is a strong possibility his message never made it to Tassie, let alone Kansas.

"Hey!" yells Singer. He stabs at his neighbour's hand with his fork when he absentmindedly reaches for Singer's chunk of bread. "Get your greedy paws off of that, Turner. It's mine."

Turner pulls his hand back and curses. Sam has to chuckle. Clearly, he isn't the only one with relationship problems.

With the radio out, the cabin fever they are all starting to suffer from is only going to get worse. Already arguments break out for no reason, people get vindictive about nothing. They bicker about bathroom privileges and blame each other for missing trinkets. Walker somehow lost the framed photo of his late sister and blamed Walt, simply because the guy admired its silver frame. Ellen mislaid some heirloom necklace, only to find it in the trash a couple days later. Yesterday, Singer accused Roy of snarfing his stash of sour lemon hard candy, without even one piece of cellophane showing up.

Eight men and one woman stuck full-time in the tiny outpost of Huge Attraction, a clutch of claustrophobic wood huts in the back of a remote and icy beyond, are bound to get antsy. Any contact with the outside world would be a blessed relief. Their work on the ice-station is frankly boring, worthy but still boring. Mentally and physically.

Each morning Ellen and Turner - sometimes Walker tags along - go out on Walt's snowcat to one of the test sites and take deep core samples. Each afternoon those samples are hauled back attached to one of the slow-moving cat track vehicles to be analysed and tested for viability by Ellen and her tech in the lab.

They are looking for traces of ancient algae, lichen, fungus and such, that could provide a new source of nutrition or maybe green energy. So far they have isolated a few spores that look likely and Walker is culturing them in the lab, enough to encourage them to keep going, but nothing to write home about. Not yet.

While that goes on, physicist Singer and Sam occupy themselves making an atmospheric meteorological survey. Hence Sam's morning on the ice with a cosmic-ray detector. Unfortunately nothing exciting has shown up here either, except for that random blip on the radar a couple days ago. They put that down to another minor glitch in the software.

Sam's thoughts are interrupted by Project Leader Campbell flopping into the seat lately vacated by Walker.

"How's the chow today?" He reaches for the ladle.

Sam has scarcely opened his mouth to pass on his thoughts on the quality of its seasoning when Campbell's walkie-talkie splutters and Ellen's voice crackles out. Campbell grabs the handset from his belt and answers.

"Campbell here. Say again, Ellen. What's that you've found?"

Despite the distorted reception, Ellen's voice comes through loud and clear, with maybe a hint of tetchiness to it.

"Hey, Campbell, we're out here at Site 43 over in the north-west sector. Looks like we've gotten some real weird readings in our GPR survey. Something strange under here. Big sucker about ten meters down. Crazy thing is it reads as magnetic as all hell. Almost like a false secondary pole, only ridiculously localized."

"Subsurface hematite mountain maybe?"

"Nuh-uh. Not this time. Seems to be a-"

A yelp and a whine come from the receiver. A second is lost before she continues.

"Freakin' wind, damn it. Uh, from its depth, could be a prehistoric meteor maybe? Either that or more hot military debris that's melted its way through the ice layer. It's metal for sure."

Campbell's face lights up. He knows the Astrophysics boys back at the university like nothing better than a good sized hunk of space-rock to drool over. And something with exotic physical properties? So much the better.

"Sounds exciting, Ellen. I'll get everyone over there to help you bring it up."

They can almost hear her shrug. "Sure, Samuel. If you think so. But I'd guess it's only another chunk of burned-out NASA hardware."

Ellen sounds a little pouty. As a microbiologist, this isn't the kind of thing she would waste time on at all. Campbell, however, has different priorities.

"Could still be interesting. We'll be with you in an hour. You can brief me when I get there."

Campbell shuts off his radio link and turns to Sam and Singer, who are all ears.

"You waiting for a bus or what?" he snaps and everyone hurries to suit up for a long afternoon on the ice.

In twenty minutes, with only Doc Crowley left at base, the team are all sitting in the trailer hitched to the smaller snowcat as Roy heads out to the bore site.

They are in for a fun afternoon.

~O~

Timeline: Drilling Site 43 - Yesterday afternoon

The afternoon is clear and bright as they arrive at the drilling site designated 43. The freezing wind has died down for a while and the sun, unfiltered by cloud, shines on snow of an undisturbed white more perfect than is ever seen on any other continent.

The scene is serene, marred only by an odd rumble from the small cat's engine and the impatient grumbling of Ellen, whose work has been held up by this annoying new find. Turner looks glad of the excuse for a break. Ellen steps forward the instant Roy turns off the engine. The snowcat makes an unhealthy rattling, scraping sound before falling silent.

"It looks like a big son-of-a-bitch, Campbell. Rufus and I have paced it out and marked its outline with marker flags to give some impression of its size."

Sam blinks and can now make out the ring of small red flags against the white background. The object isn't as big as he imagined but big for a satellite fragment, roughly the length and width of a king-size bed. They can probably lift it, unless its composition turns out to be mostly lead. Or gold. Oh yeah, sure.

Turner comes over. "I'm gonna run a line of thermite charges around that mother and see if we can pop it out like a cork." Campbell nods.

The guy is an artist at what he does. Another hour and he is poised with his hand on the plunger of the electronic detonator, ready to blow the rig. The rest of the crew have drawn back and are standing in a wide circle, speaking in low voices. No one wants to risk disturbing the blasting expert at his dangerous work. Turner is serious about his explosives.

Replacing his ear-defenders, Turner puts his whistle to his lips and blows. Ellen already has her defenders on. Everyone else ducks automatically, their fingers in their ears.

KA-BOO-OO-OOM!

There is an earth-shattering roar followed by a prickly shower of ice shards which sting Sam's face like needles and cover his head and broad shoulders like frosting. He shakes them off as the sparkling cloud showers down around them and quiet returns to their surroundings. For a moment, none of them breathes.

A loud creak causes Walker to pull in an audible gasp of frigid air. Slowly, ever so achingly slowly, the ice emits a sinister growl as the freed section begins to slide upward, like a cork from a bottle but in super slow-mo. It looks like it is going to work.

They all take a step forward to get a better look. The block is almost opaque. Sam can't see anything for trapped bubbles and suspended detritus. Whatever happened here the ice must have boiled to vapour when it came down.

"That baby's gotta weigh WELL over a ton," exclaims Singer, taking a step closer. "We gonna be able to haul a mess of ice that size back to the station?"

Turner waves them all back a ways. "Not so close, guys. Could be dangerous."

As he speaks a weird sound begins, low and throbbing at first, rapidly rising to a high brain-piercing pitch. Sam turns his back on the noise and hits the ground. Something has gone wrong. Somehow they must have set off a chain reaction inside the mysterious object. A flash of intense blue light explodes overhead.

"That baby's gonna blow!" yells Singer, right before the pressure wave hits them.

VROO-OOMPH!

Then quiet.

~O~

Minutes later, Sam comes around to realize he is at Site 43 lying on his stomach in the snow, not home in bed having a weird dream. There is a strange dull silence in his head. He rolls over and sits up just as Singer is helping Ellen to her feet and the others are staggering up too.

Campbell mouths something at Sam he can't make out. It occurs to him the guy is shouting. Sam has gone completely deaf. He points at his ears. Campbell nods and comes over to him, extending a hand to help him up.

He mimes, "You OK?" Sam nods.

There is a large jagged hole where the object used to be. Some of the others have edged closer to look down into the deep cavity. Sam and Campbell join them. The hole is now half-full of steaming meltwater, nothing else. Has the strange object been totally vaporized?

"Crap," grunts Campbell, and Sam hears him this time. "Whatever it was, I guess the thermite ignited its power source."

As they all watch, they notice something float up from below water level and bob right under the surface. It looks like it is all that is left of the object. A central core? A protective capsule? A shapeless still-frozen mass, about six feet in each dimension, it is impossible to tell what it is.

Campbell turns to Walt and Roy. "Get some ropes, boys. We may as well get that thing up outta there and check it out. Could give us some idea what the hell it coulda been."

Over the next hour, all of them working together, they manage to lift the amorphous frozen lump out of the water-filled crater and secure it with ropes on the trailer of Walt's big cat. Campbell and Sam jump on behind Walt while the others pile onto Roy's smaller cat.

The journey back to base is long and slow. No one wants to lose their curious and precious new cargo along the way. Even if it does turn out to be no more than aerospace refuse.

Singer and Turner shout over the engine noise of the smaller snowcat to speculate about what the icy mass could contain.

"If it turns out it's some commercial crap I'm gonna write my congressman," grumbles Singer. "The Antarctic ain't here to use as the world's freakin' scrap yard."

"Could be it's an escape pod from an alien spaceship," suggests Turner, chuckling, "Or maybe some kinda extraterrestrial probe?"

"Aw, sure," retorts Singer. "More like a hunka useless junk."

"Bobby. Man, you have no imagination," chides his colleague.

"I'm a physicist, Rufus, and a realist. Not a screenwriter for Disney."

As they haul their load back to Huge Attraction, Sam watches Campbell. From his quiet smirk, the guy seems to be calculating the kudos he expects to win with this find.

At least that is what Sam assumes is going on behind those mean brown eyes.

~O~

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station

When they land up back at the ice-station it is already evening and Campbell tells Walt and Roy to drag the ice block into the snowcat garage for the night.

"Get the thing under cover, guys. We'll do a thorough technical analysis on it first thing tomorrow."

The tractor garage stands roughly two hundred yards from the admin block and contains the workshop used by the two snowcat engineers. When weather permits, the two drivers spend lots of time doing maintenance in here, largely as an excuse to get away from the suffocation of the cramped main building. They have the place nice and cosy with a TV/DVD combo, a portable heater and their own hot plate.

Walker admits he is anxious to learn a little more about the value of their catch.

"Ellen, think I'd like to go in the lab and run the geophysics we did on site right away. At least get a better estimate of size and composition before calling it a day, huh?"

Ellen agrees. He is trying to pretend scientific curiosity motivates him but Sam suspects, from what he has already seen of the guy, he is more interested in what the thing might be worth, as scrap weight. Sam despises that sort of attitude.

Turner steps up, offering to go along and help Walker out.

"Last time I blew anything this big out of the ice - some ten years ago up in the Arctic Circle - it turned out to be a perfectly preserved woolly mammoth. Never expected to find anything so big in Antarctic ice. Maybe this could get me another mention in the New Scientist."

Sam considers Turner's attitude to be more forgivable. Who wouldn't want to grab a little fame out of this worthy but thankless way of life?

He has had precious little recognition for what HE does.

~O~

Back in the relative comfort of the mess hall, Sam and the rest of the team share out welcome bowls of oatmeal and mugs of hot chocolate to warm their hands and hearts as they wind down before retiring for the night. Right as they are starting to peel off toward their separate rooms for a well-earned sleep, they are interrupted by the noisy return of Turner. He is followed by Walker clutching a length of readout paper in his hands.

Campbell picks up his mug and takes the pair in his office. Sitting down at his desk, he steeples his fingers over his hot cocoa.

"So you two have gotten some initial findings already? Anything exciting?"

"You could say that," chuckles Turner. "Kinduva weird one this-"

"It's anomalous, sure," butts in Walker.

Campbell sighs and takes the printout from him, smoothing it on his desk. Walker points out the relevant columns of figures on the paper.

"These are the readings and this - here - is the analysis. It looks like the object was mainly ferrous metal with traces of chromium, silicon and some other trace compounds, roughly five and one half meters long."

"About the size and shape of a small spaceship," puts in Turner, archly.

Walker ignores that and continues. "Certainly the thing was pretty, uh, geometric to have been a regular meteor. But the strength of its magnetic flux is paradoxical. The quantity of iron present, it shouldn't produce that kinda effect. It's beyond the parameters NASA have been working with but the Soviets? Who knows?"

Campbell nods his head, disappointed. "So it's likely it WAS ex-orbital debris, huh? Spy satellite?"

"Kinda sturdy for a US or Soviet snooper," objects Turner. "Those babies are like kids' paper kites compared to this. I'd guess we're looking at serious muscle here."

"Then what?" demands their leader. "You're not saying it was some damn MISSILE we were monkeying with?!"

Walker shrugs but Turner cocks an eyebrow.

"Well, my money says either ordnance the Cold War forgot or, uh, Martian probe powered by some alien hyper-magnetic technology. I kinda like Martian probe."

By this time his inquisitive nature has brought Sam to listen at the open door of Campbell's office. He is moved to join in the conversation.

"You gotta be joking, guys. You're not tryna say we just found some ET, uh, Space Oddity embedded in two million year old ice, right? You two been smoking something out there?"

Turner laughs and pats him on the shoulder. "Sam, it's as good a guess as any. Until that thing we brought back defrosts anyways."

Walker grumbles to himself as he folds up the readout paper, annoyed Turner seems to have found a way of mocking his work yet again.

"We're scientists here, Turner," he gripes. "This is NOT the place for freakin' sci-fi fantasy."

Campbell leans back in his chair. "I gotta agree on that."

Turner holds up his hands. "Tryna lighten the mood, buddy. Right now we could all use a lighter mood."

Sam chuckles. Turner is surely right. He takes the printout from Walker and runs his eyes over the numbers.

"Guess it COULDA been artificial, Rufus. Only how would it wind up down here at the South Pole without tripping the early warning system?"

"Publicity stunt?" Turner suggests, with a cheeky grin.

"Crazy high-ticket publicity stunt," counters Sam, and Turner shrugs.

Campbell laughs dryly and shoos them out his office door.

"Gonna be a few more days till the supply plane gets here and we can send in a report. I hope you guys are gonna have something SENSIBLE on this by then."

Sam and Turner come back from Campbell's office lightened up enormously, especially by the sore look on Walker's face. Turner flashes him a how-about-a-drink hand gesture but Sam is ready for bed and declines with a shake of the head.

Almost everyone has turned in by now. Everyone, that is, except Roy who has decided to spend a while in the snowcat workshop checking out the niggling rattle in the smaller cat.

Alone...

~O~

Out in the tractor garage, Roy finds the melting mass standing in its corner quietly dripping.

Plop, plop...

Walt threw a tarpaulin over it before going back to the admin block, leaving the thing alone to thaw out. Roy reckons he has better things to do than worry about it as he runs over his maintenance checklist. After an hour of tinkering with the cat, he gives up, tosses his tools in the toolbox and wipes his hands clean on a rag.

Plop, plop...

He steals a quick peek at the murky hunk of ice under its tarp. Nothing to see yet. He puts a teen-horror DVD in the player and settles in with the secret bottle of Jack Daniels he keeps hidden under the worktable. His feet propped up on the table, he is nodding off before the first scantily clad starlet's Wilhelm scream.

Plop, plop... Slurp...

~O~

Meanwhile, back in the main building, Sam lies under a scratchy blanket in his army-style cot, huge stockinged feet hanging over the end of the bed, his arms folded behind his head. The air in the accommodations is a little chilly but it is a lot cosier inside than outside in the snow. Out there a shrieking wolf-wind whistles over the drifts, swirling up the fine icy flakes like an ice-desert dust devil.

He reaches out and grabs the photo frame from his night table. It contains a snap he took at Dean's auto shop a couple years ago. His brother is standing in front of a small crowd of his employees proudly holding up some local trade award won by his business.

Dean's wide smile seems to mock him somehow. Sam really wouldn't belong in that picture. Not need Dean? Hell, Dean doesn't need him. How could he have been such a dumb-ass? He shoves the frame in the top drawer face down and slams it shut.

"Yeah, dude, I know. Big freakin' mistake."

He listens to the howl of the gale outside and contemplates the complete isolation of their little crew so far from civilization and so cut off from telecommunication of any kind. He is feeling low, so low even the laughable idea there may be some dangerous space-creature de-icing only a few hundred yards away can't make him feel any worse.

Sighing theatrically, he carefully shuffles onto his side, burying his face in the thin pillow. Back in Kansas right this minute Dean is probably cuddled up on his memory-foam mattress with his sexy new brunette, snug under a fluffy duck-down comforter. The lucky sonuva...

He is asleep inside a minute, oblivious to the drama about to unfold around him.

Outside, the wind howls an eerie lament as it rolls across the bare tundra like some demented beast.

OOH OH WOE... OOH OOH WOE OH...

Some hours later Sam starts awake, heart racing, breathing fast, eyes blinded by solid, blank darkness. "No!"

He was dreaming, turning in the narrow confines of his bed, grotesque visions rushing through his restless brain. Horrible, nightmarish.

Sam shakes himself and takes a couple deep, raw breaths. "I'm fine. I'm safe. We're all safe," he chants.

It has been a long time since he had a bad dream like that. Not since he was a kid. Not since his parents' fatal car wreck. And his big brother isn't here to tell him not to be such a wuss and offer him a place in his bed, like he did way back then. So Sam pummels his thin pillow and tries to get comfortable. Sleep, though, will not come as easily this time.

He doesn't know why, but something feels wrong. Very wrong.

TBC

A/N: What is that 'thing' defrosting in the Quonset hut? We'll soon see.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Things start to go pear-shaped down in the Antarctic.

Howlround (Chapter IV) by frostygossamer

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station - Today

First thing after dawn, the main building's entrance door opens and mechanic Walt stumbles out into the bitingly cold and blinding wind. He is going to wake up cousin Roy, who he assumes clearly fell asleep in the snowcat garage last night. Walt wants to inspect Roy's progress on the defective tractor before bringing him back inside for breakfast.

Walt tromps through to crunchy snow to the Quonset. Opening the garage door he steps in, stomping loose flakes off of his boots, and shakes himself, looking around. He tuts when he sees Roy slumped in his chair, head on the table, apparently fast asleep. The next thing he spots is the frozen mass in the corner has almost completely melted. All that is leftover is a crumpled and sopping tarpaulin. Walt walks over to take a look.

"Hey, Roy," he calls. "Don't say you haven't noticed this thing's totally unthawed overnight."

Lifting the tarp, he peeks underneath. All that remains of the object they dragged in yesterday is a large, limp, marmalade-coloured wet thing like a huge deflated balloon. He picks one edge of it up in both hands to examine. It looks like it is made of some high-tech elastic stuff with a tough fish-scale style protective surface bonded to what he guesses is some kind of heavy-duty thermal insulation. Walt's seen nothing like it before. It seems to have been jaggedly ripped open by something incredibly sharp and pointed.

An alien CLAW maybe? If there was something inside it, it has gotten OUT.

He turns around and yells, "Hey, Roy? Whaddya reckon to this?"

Roy doesn't reply, which spooks him a little. He drops the soaking artefact, which hits the floor with a slap. Walking over to the table, he shakes his cousin by the shoulder. Roy's body slumps lifeless onto the floor. There is a ragged rip in his shirt, a gaping wound to his chest, blood soaking the flannel.

"What the hell? Damn it, man!"

Walt pulls out a knife and nervously scans the scene. He notices, for the first time, the place isn't in only its regular mess. There are signs of struggle everyplace. A couple chairs lie on their side, papers from the desk are strewn on the ground, a box of tools has been knocked over shedding its load. Roy didn't die without a fight.

He doesn't know how fast to get out of the place. Walt bolts back to the admin block to raise the alarm, leaving the garage door swinging unlatched in the polar squall.

Silence descends again.

~O~

A frigid breeze stirs the abandoned paperwork around the body of Roy, cold on the cold snowcat garage floor. All is stillness, broken only by the sound of the garage door swung shut. Clunk!

Five minutes later Walt is back with reinforcements, Doc Crowley to pronounce on Roy and deputy leader Sam to observe. The dead man's cousin looks on as Crowley kneels beside the body, checking its lack of pulse and temperature.

"The man's dead. That's plain enough. Bit late for ME to do anything for him. He's so cold he's practically solid."

Roy's fatal wound penetrated his heart. The doctor casually probes it with the end of a ballpen. Sam winces internally and wanders over to the tarp in the corner.

Crowley gives his professional opinion. "No sign of forced entry," he observes.

"Sheesh," hisses Walt, an expression of disgust crossing his face.

The doc rolls his eyes. "To the HUT, you moron. Not suggesting a bloody SEX crime here. Roy wasn't exactly a blushing daisy and we've none of us been stuck here quite THAT long."

Sam can't help a smirk at the doctor's uncompromising attitude pulling at the corner of his mouth as he busies himself examining what remains of the ice block.

"Deep wound," continues Crowley. "Maybe an ice-axe? No. Too jagged. More likely some sort of hunting knife, I'd say."

Walt gives him a hand up and he stiffly dusts off his knees.

"Who the hell coulda done this?" Walt chokes out. "We were all in the admin block together. Weren't we?"

Sam is bent over examining the damp, torn, deflated balloon-like thing. All that is left of their ice block of yesterday. He prods it with the toe of his boot.

"Looks like some kinduva placenta. Hey, you think there was something IN here? And whatever it was coulda gotten out and-? Nah, couldn't be. That thing was DEEP frozen."

Crowley gives a wry laugh. "You're saying something was ALIVE in there? Oh, come off it, Sam."

"Turner said it coulda been a spaceship we blew sky high," suggests a worried Walt.

Sam wants to dismiss that wild idea out of hand. Anywhere else but Antarctica no one would give a moment's credence to the idea that a spaceship could have landed and done so without alerting any of the world's ever vigilant surveillance systems. It is plainly ridiculous to believe for an instant that its pilot could survive being frozen rock-hard for God knows how long only to dethaw and attack the first sucker it comes across.

Hell, this isn't science fiction. This is real life. There has to be a more rational explanation. Anyway, if it did, where is it? And thinking more logically, where is the murder weapon?

"Let's look around, Walt. See if we can find the weapon they used. Then maybe we can trace it back to whoever did this. Find the knife; find the killer."

He and Walt search the whole garage end to end while Crowley sits at the workstation and writes up his brief report, but they come up with nada. Whoever, or whatever, offed Roy took the weapon with him. Or with it. In the end they give up the search and Walt reluctantly follows Crowley back to the main building. Sam switches off the electrics, locks up the hut and joins them.

They leave Roy's body to the cold.

~O~

Back in the admin block, Sam brings project leader Campbell up to speed. Campbell puts the station on red alert at once. There is someone, or something, murderous at large. Everyone needs to be on the ball. The team arm themselves with whatever they can find, which isn't much, seeing as theirs is a non-military, peaceful operation. Monkey-wrenches, ice-axes and flare guns are the best they can do. There are no firearms on this pacifist and vegetarian station.

They all meet up in the mess hall to plan their next move. Campbell addresses the crowd.

"Under normal circumstances I woulda radioed the mainland about this incident. Sadly this had to happen while our communications are out. So I guess we'll have to deal with the situation ourselves for now."

The others grumble unhappily. Campbell ignores them and continues.

"First of all, no one else in the snowcat garage. It's a crime scene, so we'll leave that for the authorities. Second of all, consider yourselves on lockdown. We're gonna sit tight until help arrives. Meanwhile-"

Singer hefts a heavy wrench. "That ALIEN FREAK had better not try anything on me. Damn it! It'll get more than a piece of my mind!"

Crowley butts in. "As team physician, I'd like to point out that we're all getting a little cabin-crazy here. Alien monster? Really?" He chuckles. "Isn't it more likely one of us has simply snapped? That we're even contemplating an extraterrestrial perp here suggests some of us aren't exactly playing with a full deck."

Campbell agrees. "You're right, Doc. We're all a wound a little tight and we don't want anyone getting hurt on accident. We need to keep calm and wait this out."

He looks to his deputy Sam for agreement. Sam stifles an ill-timed yawn. His disturbed sleep has left him a little tired.

"Why don't we pair off?" suggests the deputy leader. "That way we can keep a closer eye on each other."

Campbell nods curtly so they shuffle around until they have gotten themselves in twos. Singer and his pal Turner partner up, Walt takes the doctor, Ellen grabs Sam, and Campbell winds up with Walker.

Ellen remains uncomfortable. "Dunno about you guys, but I'd feel a lot safer if we made DOUBLE sure there isn't anything OTHER than us on the station."

Some of the others nod and mumble in agreement. Campbell sighs and gives in to the majority.

"All right. We'll form two groups and check the place inside and out THEN we'll dig in to wait for the airplane."

Leader Campbell and Walker remain inside with Singer and Turner to inspect the admin block and accommodations annex. Sam, Walt and Crowley, already dressed for outdoors, head outside to check access points and outbuildings as soon as Ellen has gotten outfitted for external weather conditions. Sam strides through the snow on his long legs while the rest of his group stumble along behind in close order, shivering.

Not simply from the cold.

~O~

After about an hour in the steadily worsening blizzard, Sam's group have found everything correct in the diesel store and Turner's explosives store, both situated a safe distance from the main building. But when they make their way back toward the tractor garage, they are in for a surprise. The door, which Sam himself locked, is hanging open, swinging in the blustery wind.

Someone has been inside.

They investigate and Walt immediately checks out the two cats, now noticing BOTH have been cleverly disabled at sometime. Even he can't figure out how to fix them without the missing parts.

"Crap! that's our only transport down the can."

Disturbing as that is, nothing much else seems to have been tampered with, so they plod on back to the admin block.

Part way along, Ellen spots something. "Hey! Prints. And they're fresh."

She points to long, slim tracks in the fresh powder. From their crisp outlines they could only be minutes old. The party follow the new marks back to the main building where they find the fire exit from the accommodations annex has been forced open. They go inside but see nobody, or thing, suspicious around.

Indoors, Singer, with Campbell's group, has discovered the walkie-talkie base-station booster in the radio shack has been trashed. So now even HT calls are limited to short distances. Someone wants to make it harder for them to keep in contact. The group run into Sam's people in the accommodations annex.

"This door's been forced," Sam tells Campbell. "It's never left open."

"Everyone!" Campbell commands. "Check out your rooms. Lockers. Under the beds. And check if anything's missing while you're at it."

They check. Several report their stuff has been monkeyed with, moved around, rummaged through. Singer's spare pair of snow boots and an old weather-proof parka and pair of mittens from Turner's room are gone. Crouching to look under his cot, Sam's supporting hand slides under his pillow and makes contact with something cold and metallic. Shocked, he plunks his butt on the bed and pulls out whatever it is to take a look.

It is a KNIFE.

To be precise, it is a big-ass hunting-style knife with a cruel point, a nasty serrated blade and a crudely finished handle. It looks exactly like the kind of weapon used to kill Roy. But what is it doing under his pillow? Sam pulls in a sharp breath between his teeth. Someone must have hidden it here in his room to incriminate HIM in Roy's murder.

Not knowing what to do with it, he speedily sticks it in his belt, covers it with his shirttail and leaves the room. Outside in the passageway he almost walks into Campbell.

"Everything all right?" Campbell eyes him narrowly. "You got anything missing?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nah." Not a lie. "But someone has been in here for sure."

Before Campbell can say anything else, there is a scream from one of the other rooms. Walker's.

~O~

They all rush toward the cry to find Ellen staring at Walker who gives one gurgling last gasp and expires right as Sam arrives. He has an ugly slash wound to his throat and his scarlet blood is splattered all over the bed he is lying on. Ellen turns pale. Sam grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her away.

"Th- the window was open," she stammers. "Went to close it. Then I saw..."

A roaring wind is slamming the open window back and forth against the frame. It looks like something left by the fastest route and is now out there in the snow. Sam looks outside, and before the falling drifts can cover them, he notices fresh tracks plus a thin trail of blood-red droplets on the pure white snow. Whatever it was, it didn't come away totally unharmed from its encounter with Walker.

"It's wounded," he murmurs, to no one in particular, shutting and locking the window.

Turning around he notices they are all now watching each other with anxious faces. Where was everyone when they were supposed to be checking their quarters alone? Which one killed Walker? It could have been anyone. Whoever left by the window could have come back in via the fire door.

"Uh, I vote we regroup in the mess," he suggests, as calmly as he can.

The others mutter nervously among themselves.

"Yeah," Campbell agrees. "Everyone keep quiet and remain calm. We'll get back to my office and decide what we're gonna do next. OK, get moving."

The tall, older man shepherds the others back toward the mess hall. Sam follows, inwardly pondering, fingering the strange knife in his belt.

Who, or what, is the killer and will anyone believe it isn't him?

~O~

A half hour later, Campbell stands in front of the whiteboard while everyone else is squeezed into the limited space of his small office adjacent to the mess hall.

"Right," he begins. "This is what we know so far."

 *** Object from Site 43**

 *** Communications**

 *** Transportation**

 *** Security**

Their leader has already put bullet points on the whiteboard. He taps the board with the cap of his green marker as he reads out his list.

"One. It looks like the object melted almost clean away. What little's left needs forensic examination and for that we need the mainland." Ellen raises a hand. "And no, we're not set up for that kind of critical investigation here, Ellen."

"Two. Currently, we can't raise the mainland because the radio's out. We have no spares to repair it. Isn't that right, Singer?" Singer nods. "Until the supply plane arrives and that's not due till next week. The walkie-talkie base-station has also been destroyed."

"Three. Both cats have been disabled, so we can't leave the station." They all grumble.

"Last of all. Roy and Walker were presumably killed by the same unknown assailant. We found ONE set of tracks. And before you butt in, Turner," Turner feigns innocence. "There's NO evidence the assailant was extraterrestrial."

Campbell expects a laugh, but he doesn't get one. He puts down his marker and folds his arms.

"The current situation is the assailant appears to have left the station temporarily by the window in Walker's room - although, of course, that could be a ruse - and it appears he's now wounded. So we all need to remain watchful. OK?" He scans the group. "Everyone on the same page?"

The others mumble grumpily among themselves. Only Ellen again raises her hand.

"Why don't we check each other out for injuries? Whoever, or whatever, killed Gordon is hurt."

Campbell nods. "That's a very good idea, Ellen. Now, who's gonna be the first to get their clothes off?"

As he scans the room for a volunteer, there is a murmur of discontent until Singer speaks up.

"Dunno about you but I'm not about to strip down to my shorts in front of the whole station. I may not be a nervous virgin but an old man needs to keep what dignity he has left."

Turner agrees. "My ass ain't for public display either. Hell no!"

Sam makes a compromise suggestion. "Suppose we split into our pairs and go check each other over in private, huh?"

This sounds a less off-putting option, so they all disappear in twos into different corners of the station to comply. Ellen remains with Sam. Faced with seeing Ellen naked, Sam can't stop himself reddening a little. Ellen notices him look away as she peels off her warm top layer.

"Listen, Sam. This isn't gonna work if you're gonna be shy about it. I guess I've got nothing you've not seen on a woman before. And I guess you're built like any other guy, right?"

Sam laughs uncomfortably. "Yeah, sure. I'm being a doofus, huh?"

He soon gets down to his shorts, taking care to roll up the implicating knife in the soft folds of his undershirt. Ellen in her sport bra and shapewear panties - sensibly and flatteringly black - looks damned attractive for an older female. Sam can't help but think she could have had a successful career in the movies if her mind hadn't been all science and 'Save the Whale'.

She chuckles as she runs her hands searchingly over Sam's chest and shoulders. His eyes are riveted to a large modelled crucifix on a fancy gold chain bumping between her ample bosoms. The tiny Jesus looks happy to be there.

"Impressive, right?" She smirks up at him. "It's the real deal. Genuinely blessed. Nothing false on this honey."

She does a little shimmy, being deliberately suggestive, and Sam's eyeballs are out on stalks. He tries to think of something else. Anything else. If he gets visibly aroused by this he will never be able to look the woman in the face again.

"Great muscle definition." She walks around him to examine his back view. "You work out?"

Sam shrugs and deflates a little. "When I can. Helps me keep warm and passes the time. Oof!"

Ellen has slipped her fingers in his shorts to check out his butt. For flesh wounds. She slaps him hard on the right ass cheek, making him bite his lip.

"All good. Looks like you're not the guy."

He gives her a less hands-on once-over, his fingers ghosting just above the skin, like he is capturing a 3D image of her body. Her hips shiver beneath his palms. Her bosom quivers under his not-quite touch.

She draws in a sharp breath and sucks her lip as he leans in to shadow the plump rounds of her derriere. He can't help noting her skin's absolute perfection. Maybe he has been celibate too long.

Sam coughs and pulls away too fast. She smirks, not fooled for a minute.

"You too. You're good. Not that I woulda believed-"

His words are cut off by another shout.

TBC

A/N: Things are warming up now. Mwahaha! More soon.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sam and Ellen are just getting friendly but suddenly...

Howlround (Chapter V) by frostygossamer

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station - Today

Interrupted in his moment with Ellen by a shout of alarm, Sam pulls on his pants, and grabbing his undershirt, runs toward the sound. He finds a crowd in the middle of Walt's room.

Walt is lying on the floor. Dead.

Behind the huddle, shirtless Sam pulls his T-shirt on over his head and notices Ellen come up behind him, now fully dressed. As he palms the strange knife back into his waistband unseen, she hands him his flannel overshirt.

Walt has a nasty great hole in his belly, a knife wound. Looks like it was made with the same kind of blade that killed Roy and Walker, a hunting knife. Walt's pair-up, Crowley, the guy who was meant to have been examining him, stands bent double nearby rubbing his head and wincing.

"Your flaming ALIEN came up behind me and bopped me on the blasted melon," he claims, indignantly. "Didn't see a bloody thing."

He certainly has a big red bump growing on the thinning top of his head, but that doesn't stop the others seizing him with growls and malicious intent. Before threats turn to action, Campbell wades in to calm everybody down.

"Look, guys. I think we should wait until the authorities get here before jumping to any rash conclusions."

"They were alone together," argues Turner. "We were all watching each other. Who the hell else coulda done it?"

Campbell spreads his hands in a calming gesture.

"OK, OK. Maybe you're right, but what we gotta do is lock the guy up until we can hand him over to the proper agency. I'm not gonna let you lynch anyone on my watch."

No one likes the image that word invokes. They let go of Crowley.

The small guy shakes himself and hisses, "Bloody cretins."

"You can lock him in the snowcat garage," suggests Ellen. "Roy's not gonna bother him."

"Locked up with a dead guy?" mutters Singer, shuddering.

Ellen shrugs. "He's a doctor, Bobby. He's seen plenty dead guys."

"Yeah, and we may as well take Walker and Walt out there too," adds Turner. "The more the goddamn merrier."

This sounds like a reasonable solution to most everyone. Unpleasant as hauling the bodies outside is, no one was too happy about keeping them around in the main building. So they all suit up and force Crowley to don his snow gear and boots before duly frogmarching him off toward the main entrance. He continues to protest and struggles ineffectively as he is half-dragged along. The doctor may be small but he is slippery to handle.

"I'll go get him a sedative shot," suggests Singer, before shooting off in search of their first-aid supplies.

"I do NOT need a bloody tranquilizer, you berk," grumbles Crowley. "I'm not a mad ruddy dog."

Sam has his doubts about such a featherweight taking down a big guy like Walt, but... Hmm.

~O~

The men carry Crowley over to the snowcat garage and lay him limply across a couple chairs. Sam drapes a spare blanket over him for the cold. The two further dead team members are laid out on the floor beside Roy and covered respectfully with a tarp.

Campbell comes up beside Sam. "Once the drug kicks in fully he'll be out cold for hours. We'll have no more trouble from him."

Crowley moans, fighting the soporific effect of the sedative, and curses under his breath.

"Bastards. You're making... Bleeding balls-up. Wasn't me. I never..."

Singer and Turner check the door is secure and unceremoniously seal him in with a heavy new padlock. Outside the door, Campbell holds the padlock key up to the others and lays down the law. He speaks loudly to be heard over the wind.

"I'm gonna put this key in the safe in my office. The doc can stay in here until we get assistance. THEY can deal with him. OK?"

The others nod and mutter. From inside the corrugated hut, Crowley continues his indistinct complaints, punctuated by curses and growls.

"Innocent man here. Never laid a hand on- on bloody wassisname- Walt. Only reason I let you morons lock me up- bloody sight safer- safer in HERE! Safer'n you tits out THERE. With the REAL flaming killer. Bloody ALIEN."

Campbell shepherds everyone away. "Ignore him. Danger's over. Back to work"

But Sam has to wonder if the doctor hasn't got a point. If Crowley is the killer then fine. If not?

After the incarceration of one of their number, a feeling of partial relief descends on the marooned research station. Shell-shocked by recent events, the team members are all glad they can now put away their makeshift weapons and get back to their normal routine. Or try to.

For an hour or two at least.

~O~

Sam can't let go a faint lingering uneasiness. The nightmare didn't help. He hasn't had a bad dream like that in years. But there is definitely a strange, disquieting atmosphere around the station the deaths alone can't entirely explain. Something that makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Something almost uncanny. It is as if the air itself has been magnetized.

He decides to make one more round of the building, and a few minutes later, runs into Singer and Turner near the main entrance, again dressed for outdoors. Singer notices his squinty-eyed look and explains.

"Rufus here thinks there may just be some scrap electronics out in his big old firecracker box. Maybe we'll find something to jury-rig the radio? Get a Morse signal out?"

"Yep," agrees Turner. "There's a bunch of junk equipment that's been stored in the explosives locker since the base was last occupied. Could be Bobby here can cannibalize some of the parts."

Sam can see it could be worth the trip outside. "I'll tell Campbell. But don't take forever. Hear me?"

"Wish I knew what Crowley's done with my other pair of boots, is all," Singer grumbles. "These new ones ain't totally worn in yet."

The two guys laugh and shuffle out into the snow. Sam re-closes the outer and inner doors after them. As he walks back inside, it crosses his mind to wonder what Doc Crowley needed with Singer's boots. He has some of his own, and with his small feet, Singer's would be kind of sloppy on him anyway. So, what, he wore thick socks?

Shaking the doubt from his head, he makes his way back to the mess hall where Ellen has co-opted the coffee pot from Campbell and used her magic to brew up a half-decent pot of java. She asks Sam to share out a big slab of chocolate she is been hording against a rainy day. This has certainly been a rainy day if there ever was one.

Ellen and Sam sit sipping their coffee and chat about nothing in particular while they wait for Singer and Turner to return. Campbell hardly contributes. His thoughts seem to be elsewhere. The mess hall is warm and cosy, and they are all kinds of burned out.

Sam lets his eyes close for a moment.

~O~

An hour, or maybe two, later Sam suddenly wakes. He must have fallen asleep with his head on the table. He groans and sits up rubbing his ear, glancing around the room only to realize he is alone.

He touches the coffee pot. Stone cold.

The other guys' share of the chocolate remains uneaten. So Turner and Singer haven't returned yet? Sam's hand goes automatically to his walkie-talkie, but then he remembers the HT base-station is down and he can't raise the explosives store from here during a storm.

Something about the silent and frigid atmosphere of the station makes him feel uneasy. Very uneasy.

Quietly, he rises from the table and sets off to search for the others. Stalking through the dimly lit halls of the old wood building, he fingers the big strange knife in his waistband.

He can't help feeling a little glad he is armed.

~O~

The mess hall, the lab, the radio shack are all empty. Maybe Campbell and Ellen have gone to their separate quarters to rest? He leaves the admin block and goes through to the accommodations annex. The room at the end of the passageway is Campbell's, a little bigger than the others as befits their team leader.

Sam can see a shaft of bright light where the door stands slightly ajar. He makes his way over, treading lightly. For some reason he feels anxious on his own. As he nears the door he can make out shadows moving inside the room. Someone is in there. Great.

Right up to the door now, Sam can see Campbell and also Ellen, with their backs to him. Campbell has his big hands on Ellen's waist. Crowding his broad chest up against her back, he is putting moves on her. She seems to like it. Wriggling in his grasp and chuckling sexily, she raises both hands over her head and loosens her shoulder-length ash brown hair, shaking it out.

Sam takes a step backward, not wanting to invade their privacy. He has always suspected Campbell had a thing for Ellen and he knows Ellen likes a well-built guy. If they catch him watching it could get embarrassing.

As Sam starts to retreat, Campbell's hands slide up to Ellen's neck. She laughs and twists her head, enjoying it. But his grip tightens and tightens. Alarmed now, she turns around and grabs his wrists with both hands, ineffectually tugging. He increases the pressure, fingertips digging into her pale flesh, crushing her windpipe with his thumbs, choking the very life out of her. In a few seconds she slumps from his arms to the floor, insensible.

Campbell snatches the crucifix from the senseless woman's neck and tosses it away with a curse. His wide grin is evil itself.

Outside, Sam gasps. He wants to run in the room and stop Campbell, save Ellen. Before he can move, Campbell stoops over Ellen's prone body and grabs her jaw, squeezing her empty blank face between his fingers, forcing her mouth open wide.

Sam stands aghast as an inky miasma, black and filthy as crematory fumes, issues from the older man's mouth. Swirling and roiling in the most disgusting way it flows between Ellen's helpless lips. Campbell drops her body, lifeless as a rag doll and straightens up. On the floor, Ellen twitches and rolls on to her back. Her eyes snap open.

Jeez! They are completely BLACK. Black as the void of space!

Unceremoniously, Campbell helps her to her feet. No, he helps whatever she has BECOME to ITS feet. It is patently not Ellen anymore.

Sam can't breathe. What the hell just happened? His mind races. Something evil, something alien, something that shocks him to the bone. But he needs to move, and now. He needs to hide someplace, organize his thoughts, work out what in heaven he is going to do. He desperately glances around the passageway.

Where? A storage room.

~O~

Sam bolts into the nearby storeroom and closes the door carefully, almost knocking over a couple boxes. The room contains kitchen and cleaning supplies, and some leftover decorating materials from the station's last makeover. He steadies the wobbly cartons carefully and then presses his ear to the ventilation grill in the closed door.

Ellen's voice is talking with Campbell in the hall outside. They are moving this way. When the couple come to a stop right outside the storeroom door, Sam's muscles tense up.

"So who's left, boss? Um, Singer, Turner, Winchester." It's Ellen and yet somehow NOT Ellen.

Campbell barks out a hard laugh. "I dealt with Singer and Turner. Winchester's the last of the human scum. We find him, possess him directly then go ahead with the plan. The first batch of Croatoan virus-infected fungus samples are ready. The next batch of vials is waiting in the lab."

"Tomorrow's the solstice," Ellen points out. "We're right on schedule."

"I need you to help me with the rest of the samples. Two pairs of hands and we can have them all set up before the regular airplane arrives. Once those greedy human slime have tasted our new miracle food the lamebrained boneheads will be falling over themselves to start worldwide distribution."

"This thing's gonna be the new Quorn." Ellen gleefully snickers. "The dumb-asses will never guess the solution to world hunger is gonna mean the end of mankind. There'll be Croatoan contagion everyplace inside a year. Earth will become a local branch of Hell and WE'll be running it."

Campbell's laugh is dark. "We'll torch the station and destroy all the evidence right before the plane touches down. Leave no traces. Blame it on a frozen methane release."

Sam listens with growing dread, his eyes wide.

He tries to make sense of what he has heard. OK, Turner and Singer are dead? Jeez, the poor guys. Campbell and Ellen aren't human anymore? Somehow something took control of them, something alien? Turner was right. There WAS an alien in that ice and it came here from some other planet with a plan to subdue the Earth and eliminate mankind. Typical 50's flick made real.

It is hard now to believe his friends were stupid enough to BRING the thing to the ice-station where it would unfreeze and start killing and propagating itself within the team. Now its minions are planning on conquering the Earth using some kind of a virus they have cooked up in the station's own lab from an extraterrestrial pathogen. And these two monsters from God knows where are standing together casually chatting about it outside the closet.

It looks like Sam is all that stands between them and the fruition of their dastardly scheme. The whole thing is like some nightmarish scenario from one of his brother's favourite horror movies. He has got to stop them! But how?

If Sam is the only human left alive, he hasn't much of a chance against two aliens working together. Three if he includes the Alpha Alien, wherever the hell it has squirreled itself away. If he stays inside the base they WILL find him soon and he can't survive outside for even a day, much less until the relief plane arrives. He has to face it. He is NOT going to survive. Jeez, how he wishes he had listened to his brother and stayed in Kansas. Now he is going to die here, and no one will ever get to know the truth.

He asks himself what would Dean do? Not sit it out, for sure. All through their childhood his big brother taught him not to be a dweeb and take it to the bullies. Sam pulls himself together. He may be going to die soon but he is damned if he is going to let a couple monsters take over the world if he can help it. He knows what he has to do. He has to destroy them and their dastardly plan. His death is going to mean something.

So what WOULD Dean do? If only Sam's big brother were right here when he most needs his support. No, strike that. Man up, Sam. Dean is safe back home in Kansas, where he belongs. This is up to you, Sammy boy. He can almost hear his brother's encouraging voice.

His options? The aliens mean to torch the base when they complete their evil agenda, right? Well, torching the station BEFORE they are ready sounds like a better plan. Hey, if he can only get to the explosives store he can wire the place up and blow every damn thing to kingdom come. He will die out on the ice, but at least the world will be safe.

He grabs a can of spray-paint and fumbles for a box of matches on the kitchen supplies shelf. Too bad he doesn't have a gun but these will have to do. If he can get past Campbell and Ellen he is going to blow the whole damn ice-station sky high. There will be nothing left but a big-ass hole punched through the ice pack. Slam dunk!

Pulling himself up to his full height, he sets his shoulders and his resolve.

Pity no one will ever know what really happened. Pity Dean will never know. Sam has only a slim chance of succeeding but he has to try. What else can he do? He has to sacrifice himself for humankind, for his brother.

He has got to do this to save Dean. Would Dean say he was thinking crazy? Yeah, maybe.

As he mulls over his plan, his fingers tightening around the cold metal of the spray-can, the pair outside move on toward the mess hall. His muscles un-tense and he steps back from the door, straight into something.

Something huge and hairy!

Sam stifles a grunt of surprise. He is NOT alone in here!

In the dimly lit storeroom, Sam feels a damp and furry body up against his back. Whatever it is it is big, maybe as big as he is. And it is disgustingly dripping half-melted slush on the storeroom floor.

Drip, drop...

This has got to be the thing from the ice, he thinks wildly. The Alpha Alien has probably been lurking in the storage room since it last killed. And he had the worst luck to walk right into it.

The unseen figure slips a restraining limb around his torso and jams a hairy paw over his mouth. A huge deadly spike protrudes from that paw. The weapon is caked with dried blood. Sam's fingers flex but the monster anticipates him and tightens its grip, trapping his arms down at his sides.

Sam wants to shout out, but to whom? Who is there to help him? He struggles and finds his ambusher is easily as strong as he is. Either it will kill him this very second or turn him into a monster like the others. There is nothing he can do.

"Fine," Sam growls through his teeth. "Whatever the HELL you are, go ahead. Do it now!"

The thing behind him hisses menacingly and tightens its grip on his face.

TBC

A/N: Sorry but I'm going to have to leave you hanging from that cliff for a day or so because I have other things to do. Don't worry. More will be coming along soon. :))


	6. Chapter 6: Interlude

A/N: OK, now lets leave Sam's nasty fate and jump forward again to Dean's POV. Since Chapter I Dean has been living with the loss of his brother for a couple of months and he's not taking it well, as you would expect. Poor sad guy, he's going through hell.

Howlround (Chapter VI: Interlude) by frostygossamer

Timeline: Winchester residence - Two months from today

Late one evening, Carmen pulls up outside Dean Winchester's place and waits in her car a minute while she decides how she is going to approach this. The guys at the garage suggested she should go over and see Dean, their boss and buddy, because he hasn't been in to work for several days. In fact, Dean has been around the shop hardly at all in the last couple months. She couldn't say no. She worries about him too.

Two months have passed since Dean got the news his only brother lost his life in some freak accident down at the South Pole. Carmen shivers. To die so far from civilization, so far from home. Not a fate she would have chosen for her worst enemy, let alone Sam. She only met him that once but he seemed like such a nice guy, and Dean was so devoted to him. The poor schmuck.

Climbing out of the car, Carmen retrieves a deep-dish apple pie from the passenger seat. She baked it specially, knowing Dean is partial to a piece of pie. It is wrapped in a red and white checked dish towel, so it is still warm and smelling delicious. She hopes it can help raise Dean's spirits, by even a little bit.

Dean sits in his kitchen with an almost empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. He is deliberately torturing himself by going through a shoebox full of dog-eared snaps of you-know-who. His forefinger sadly traces the ditzy grin on each rendering of the late Sam's goofy face. Then his doorbell buzzes. With a tired sigh he rises from his chair and goes to answer the door, ready to give whoever is daring to disturb him an earful.

However, this is only Carmen wearing a sad, soft smile and bearing pie.

"Thought you could use a little home-baking, sweetie. It's cinnamon apple. My mom's special recipe."

Dean shakes his head. Even apple pie can't shift the cloud of depression he is under these days. And he can live without the sympathy everybody seems to be falling over themselves to give him. He shrugs sullenly.

"Honey, I appreciate that you made the effort. But pie ain't gonna cure me."

He walks straight past the girl into the night, leaving her standing there feeling confused and useless.

"Guess I'll put this in your kitchen, huh?" she calls after him, framed in the open doorway.

Her question is drowned out by the engine of Dean's Impala as he pulls away.

~O~

Dean drives around aimlessly for a couple hours, until the rhythm of the road isn't dulling his brain enough anymore, then he parks up at a random bar. From the colourful promotional crap outside, it looks like this is some kind of a trendy college hangout. But what does he care? As long as they have alcohol and plenty of it.

One step inside, he sees he is right about the students. The place is full of happily laughing twenty-somethings. The ambient music is current chart, not his taste, and way too loud. He climbs on a barstool and orders a double whiskey from the pretty blonde bartender. He takes only a passing interest in her low-buttoned shirt, which isn't like him but lately he hasn't been himself.

On the next stool a large faux-cowboy type is annoying a slight Asian youth who clearly does NOT want to hang with him. The kid is nursing a beer and it looks like it isn't his first of the night by a long way. The guy's big mouth is soon annoying Dean too. He taps him on the shoulder.

"Buddy, you wanna take your beer and find a table?"

The guy spins on his stool. "Hey! Wha-?" he splutters.

He looks damn scary from the front, busted nose and ruddy face, but Dean has dealt with bigger bullies in school and he isn't in a friendly mood.

"You wanna leave that kid alone and go finish up your beer in peace? Or you wanna find out how it works as a hair treatment?"

The big guy frowns and turns a little redder, but Dean's manner suggests he isn't joking around. He has his no-bullcrap face on and there is something grim about it. Even a roughneck would think twice about tackling Dean in this sort of humour. The guy opens his mouth, but sensing if he backtalks the new arrival it is going to end in a fistfight, he shuts it again and stands, picking up his bottle.

"Sure thing, bud," he mutters, as he moves away.

Dean turns back to the bar as the blonde pours his drink and wordlessly tosses down a bill. That is all the interaction he plans to have tonight. After a minute or two the Asian youth coughs and addresses him.

"Uh, thanks. That guy was becoming a pain."

"Don't mention it," responds Dean, not even turning around.

He really did only challenged the roughneck to shut him up. He isn't interested in starting a conversation with anyone else. The youth notices the cold shoulder but he is already squiffy enough to ignore it.

"I'm Kevin, by the way. Glad to meet you."

Dean ignores him. He can honestly say he doesn't feel very glad to meet anyone anymore. He may never feel glad about anything ever again. Kevin holds out his hand, offering a handshake. Even though he doesn't get an immediate response, he doesn't take it away. Dean leaves him hanging for a while but eventually concedes to a perfunctory shake. Kevin seems like a nice kid, even if he is a little smashed.

"Dean," he supplies, curtly.

He downs his whiskey in one gulp and sighs. He would go someplace quieter, if he could only be assed to leave.

"Lemme buy you another drink," suggests Kevin, signalling to the barkeep.

But Dean doesn't want to get into reciprocal drinking tonight. He has become more of a solitary drinker, silently toasting his brother with every fresh glass.

"Save it, kid. If I wanna drink, I got money in the bank."

Kevin laughs dryly. "Sure wish I could say the same."

Sounds like a sob story coming on. Dean again considers getting up and leaving, but to tell the truth he hasn't the motivation to take another step. May as well wallow in despondency with a fellow wallower. He signals the bartender for another round for them both.

"OK, let me have it, uh, Kevin. You tell me about your sorry-ass tough luck and maybe I'll tell you about mine."

With a sigh, Kevin begins. "I lost my grant from KU. And right when my experiments were beginning to look great. Initial findings were ALL positive. All I needed was more cash to built an actual device. But when I went to the committee they turned me down, laughed in my face. Then they closed down my lab, kicked me to the curb. Damn it. I KNOW I could've gotten it working."

"So you asked for more money and got canned? Same old same old."

"Yeah, but I was THIS close to a breakthrough," whines Kevin, holding his forefinger and thumb minutely apart. "If only I hadn't told them about..."

He takes another long drink from his beer and drops his head onto his arms on the bar. Dean pats him on the shoulder. He feels bad for the kid, really he does, but this is another example of how the world truly sucks. Something he is already well aware of.

"Crap happens, kid. You gotta suck it up and move on."

"Like you?" Kevin asks, pointedly.

The sensitive younger man can easily recognize a fellow suffering soul when he sees one.

"It's different." Dean cracks a cold smile. "I lost someone important to me. You don't just suck that up. Believe me, I have tried."

"Oh." Kevin feels a little sorry he spoke. He lowers his voice. "Who was it, huh? Wife? Girlfriend?"

Slowly Dean answers, "My brother. My kid brother."

Mrs. Tran's only child doesn't know a whole lot about having a brother, but he can imagine how bad he would feel if anything should happen to his mom, his only family. Family can break your heart. Losing family can wreck it.

"I'm sorry." Hardly adequate, he knows.

"Not as much as I am."

Dean sounds bitter. He knocks back his whiskey and raps on the bar for a refill. The bartender obliges. He suspects he has already drunk too much to safely drive home. Not that he really cares about his safety, but he wouldn't want to be a menace to other innocent drivers. Or worse, ding his car. May as well stay right here drinking until he falls off of the stool.

"Feel like tying one on good, Kevin?"

"Sounds like a GREAT idea."

They clink glasses.

After several more rounds, Kevin is starting to feel like Dean is the best pal he has ever had. Maybe even someone he can share with? He draws a slim box from his shirt pocket and opens it on the bar.

"Y'know what thish is?"

Dean stares at the box a second before picking up the angel feather. It twinkles under the bar lights as he twirls it in his fingers, and he is baffled.

"OK. I give up. What the hell IS it?" He snickers. "Don't tell me it's Dumbo's magic freakin' feather?"

Kevin raises his glass. "Got it in one."

~O~

Dean wakes up the next morning on his couch at home, still fully dressed and aching all over. When he did get so damn OLD? Yeah, he knows the exact day.

"GOTTA stop with the all-nighters."

His head feels like an ostrich egg trapped between the merciless jaws of a bitch hyena. He staggers in the kitchen and helps himself to a handful of Tylenol washed down with a glass of cold water straight from the faucet. It doesn't help much.

It is quarter after ten. He considers fixing himself some breakfast but the thought of food makes his stomach churn. Even the sight of Carmen's fine pie, lying on the counter with a piece missing, doesn't pique his interest, quite the reverse. It turns his stomach, so he stows it in the fridge. After pouring a mug from the bubbling coffee-maker he doesn't remember filling, he decides one piece of dry toast probably won't kill him.

The toast crumbs stick to the back of his throat.

He is vainly trying to remember where he went the previous night, and how exactly he got home, when the doorbell buzzes. Its shrill note goes right through him. Suspecting this is Carmen again, he goes to the door. As his hand reaches for the doorknob, a weak apology for his behaviour last evening is half forming in his head. Any chick who would baked him pie really didn't deserve to be snubbed that way.

When he opens the door, he is confronted with an Asian-looking stranger, about sixteen or seventeen, who carries a large black portfolio case under his arm. Before Dean can say word one, the young stranger charges past him into the house. It takes a shocked Dean a full second to recover his voice.

"Hey!" he calls after the youth. "Did I say come in? And who the hell're you anyways?"

The stranger swiftly clears Dean's kitchen table of photos and breakfast then unzips his portfolio, excitedly spreading out drawings and diagrams all around.

"These are the plans, Dean. See. This here's the navigation assembly. The power module. This is the main regulator and here... Here's where the payload sits. Come look."

He is babbling, jabbing at a big colourful drawing with his finger. Dean stands in the kitchen doorway mystified and more than a little indignant.

"Do I even KNOW you?"

Kevin looks up at him and smiles. "You're hung over, Dean. It'll come to you in a moment. I'm Kevin. We met last night? At a bar? I told you about my experiments, that I needed new premises, new equipment. You promised me you would bankroll it all. And you gave me this."

He reaches in his pocket, produces a bank cheque and holds it out to Dean. Dean takes it from him and tries to focus his bleary eyes on it. Straight off he sees the signature on it is his - at least it looks damn like his signature - and the amount is for ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars? Who IS this kid and what is his deal?

"I did NOT sign this," he protests.

His visitor gives him an understanding smile. "Sure you did. In the taxicab on the way back here?"

Dean recalls none of it. Is this kid scamming him?

"Back HERE?" He points at the rug. "You're telling me you've already been here?"

"Sure. I slept it off on the floor. I even fixed that coffee you're drinking, and ate a piece of your delicious apple pie before I went out to-"

Dean decides he isn't standing for any more of this horsecrap. "I'm tearing up this cheque."

The youth looks alarmed. "No, no, no! Dean, I'm gonna NEED to deposit that today. I've already spent it, well, most of it. I organized us space on campus. And some of the parts I want I already had on order, so I called them up and un-cancelled. I was thinking you can deal with the engineering side, you being a mechanic and all. And I guess-"

Dean isn't getting any of this. He holds up his hand to stop Kevin in mid-flow.

"What EXACTLY am I supposed to be bankrolling here?"

The young man sighs. He is going to have to spoonfeed the poor dumb guy. Again.

"My experiments. My device. I told you how I was THIS close to getting it working and you said if this thing has a gnat's chance in a twister you'd give me every last cent you had."

Dean is speechless. He has never been in the habit of swearing away all his assets, even when drunk.

"Why the hell would I say a stupid-ass thing like that? Kid, you have gotta be crazy."

Kevin gently smiles and explains. "Because, Dean, you lost your only brother two months ago."

Oh no, he did not just go there! The holy B-word cuts Dean like a razor. That a stranger should use THAT word to him seriously bites. How dare this bozo mention his brother? Dean's eyes bulge with rage. He lunges toward the young interloper and snatches up his schematic, squinting at the words printed on it, turning it upside down, downside up.

"Yeah? Well, that didn't make me lose my mind, or my grip on reality. Why would I wanna help you build this gizmo? What the hell even IS this? Some kinda airplane? A freakin spaceship?"

The young scientist laughs inwardly, anticipating the same reaction he got from Dean last night. He holds out his hand for the blueprint.

"No, Dean, in the words of Don Draper, this is not a spaceship. It's a time machine."

Without another word Dean hands over the schematic. And the cheque.

~O~

Timeline: Kevin's rented office unit - Next day

The unit young Kevin has rented on campus is little more than a closet with power and water. But when they move Kevin's equipment in, the boy genius is energized. Everything he needs to get up and running is piled up in the centre of the floor, while Kevin excitedly dances around it checking things off on his clipboard.

"You don't know how much this means to me, Dean. No one has had this much faith in me before. Except Mom, naturally."

Dean isn't sure how strong his belief really is, but he appreciates it isn't going to encourage the kid to say so. He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the hook on the back of the door and rolls up his sleeves.

"That's it, kid. Absolute freakin' faith. I am TOTALLY signed up for this thing you're gonna do. Now where do we start?"

It takes them several hours to get the lab up and running. Dean does the heavy lifting and Kevin the fine adjustment. When everything is set up, wiped off and plugged in, Kevin brings out his box, the ancient box handed down from his forefathers.

He sighs dramatically. "Take a seat, Dean." He wheels over a smart new office chair. "There's something I gotta show you."

Dean raises an eyebrow as he sits. He sincerely hopes the guy isn't going to show him his mental hospital discharge papers. At this point he really wouldn't be surprised. He is beginning to suspect he might have gone crazy himself.

Kevin stands in front of him with the small carved box in his hands. It is about three inches by eight long and decorated all over with neat eastern characters, on the face if it nothing special.

"Now don't say anything until I've had a chance to explain," he warns, ominously.

He opens the box and holds it toward Dean. "Take it."

The box is lined with dark red silk and in it lies a large feather. The tail feather of some very big bird maybe? An eagle? An albatross? Dean picks it up and holds it to the light. It coruscates prettily, as if it has been worked up from multicoloured rhinestone encrusted silks. Something a Vegas showgirl wouldn't be ashamed of. Dean has the vaguest idea he has seen this before someplace. As a matter of fact, he has but he was drunk out of his senses at the time.

"Ooh, sparkly!" He waves the thing a little. "Seriously. What the crap IS this?"

Kevin is kneeling on the floor now, looking up at him with big, earnest eyes.

"It's the wing feather of a genuine ANGEL," he breathes.

"The hell it is!"

OK, so he really HAS gotten a mental case on his hands. He gives a dry laugh. Yeah, and maybe he IS crazy too. He looks at Kevin, all eager and expectant, and all Dean can feel is sorry.

"Please don't tell me this whole thing's some big freakin' joke, kid. Jeez, I can't-"

Kevin fervently shakes his head. "No! No, Dean. Not a joke. Definitely NOT a joke. This feather, this exact feather has been passed down through my family for generations. It came from the wing of an actual angel, no lie."

He says this with real awe in his voice, but he can see Dean looks sceptical. He knows that look. His mom got the same one from him when she entrusted him with the feather.

"Yeah, sure, I know it sounds screwy. And you're thinking exactly what I was thinking when my mom gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. But it IS real. It really IS. AND I can prove it."

He takes the feather from Dean's hand and places it reverently on a work surface.

"Let me show you something. If it doesn't convince you this thing is the real deal then you can walk away."

Kevin plugs a small device into a wall outlet and fastens one alligator clip to the spine of the feather and another to its silky tip.

"Now I reverse the polarity..."

He adjusts a control knob, stands back and flicks the power switch. The feather raises six inches in the air and floats there for a moment before twisting oddly then vanishing. The two clips drop to the bench and Kevin flicks off the power switch. He turns to Dean with his arms smugly folded.

"The secret is to fine tune the frequency of the oscillation and a bunch of other parameters. It's kinda tricky."

He goes to the coffeemaker and fills a mug, adding milk and sugar. "You want some?" he asks, casually.

Dean stares blankly back at him. "OK. So it's gone. You got more? Because otherwise..."

Kevin takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs. "It's unreliable. That's the problem. It DOES work. Only it's erratic. What we gotta do is work out how to harness it. And that's all."

"That's all," parrots Dean, with a note of sarcasm.

What kind of proof was that meant to be? Did he miss something or is this all hokum? He gets up, marches to the door, takes his jacket off of the hook and puts it on.

"Need a drink, a REAL drink."

He grabs the doorknob and is about to stomp out when Kevin starts to chuckle.

"OK. I've hung you out long enough. Check your pockets."

Dean checks his jacket pockets and pulls out a feather, twin to the one he checked out earlier.

"NOW tell me this thing isn't a real angel feather," demands Kevin.

Dean turns the opalescent feather over and over. It IS identical. While Kevin stands grinning nervously at him, he considers it for a moment.

"This was in my pocket the entire time?"

"Yup," admits Kevin. "Showed up about an hour ago while you were in the can. Not much of a shift, I admit, but it proves the principle. And it-"

He gets cut off by Dean barking out a wry laugh. "I may regret this, Kevin, but I think I'm in."

Dean knows this is a huge leap of faith, a stupid, blind, insane, impossible leap of faith. A time travelling feather is one thing, but a time machine? Well, he is ready to take that leap. He is ready to do whatever it takes to save his brother.

After all, the alternative is unacceptable.

TBC

A/N: So Dean and his new chum are hoping to find a way to communicate with the Antarctica of Chapter V? More about that soon.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Next chapter. Still in Dean's POV and time is slipping by. But there's a bit of drama at the end this time.

Howlround (Chapter VII) by frostygossamer

Timeline: Kevin's rented office unit - One year later

Project development takes a little longer than Dean hoped. In actuality, it takes Kevin the better part of a year to get a prototype up and running in their new lab. During that time the project eats up Dean's liquid funds and he is forced to sell two of his repair shops to a rival garage chain.

Dean spends less and less time at work. Carmen and the crew at head office begin to wonder about his mental health. If they had any inkling of what he is really up to they would be calling in the white-coat brigade and suggesting they bring a straitjacket along.

Exactly why is he selling his assets? Fortunately, they have no clue what those assets are being liquidized for. As far as Dean is concerned, those cheques he writes for Kevin are his prescription against despair. After all, who has he left to leave his money too? Sam was all he had.

~O~

Early one morning about six months on, Dean is woken by an urgent call from Kevin. He reaches a weary hand out from the bedclothes and picks up his cell phone from the nightstand.

"Uh, whozat? Kevin? Whassup?" he yawns.

Young Tran is breathless at his end of the line. "Dean? Dean, I've just now gotten in and there's a bunch of angry-looking flies in the apparatus."

Dean vaguely wonders why the youth feels the need to inform anyone about some six-legged trespassers he could easily take care of himself.

"Bugs. Seriously? You phobic or what? Get yourself a rolled up newspaper and bat their tiny asses outta there."

Kevin responds impatiently. "Dean, they didn't come in the window. They're in a JAR. They came THROUGH the apparatus."

Dean sits up straight. "You're saying we sent them back? From tomorrow maybe?"

"Maybe tomorrow. I dunno. Only not today, not yesterday. So, yeah, tomorrow. Or the next day."

So the implication is the buzzy critters travelled back through time from some test they have yet to do? Dean rubs his hand through his hair. Not exactly dramatic results, but baby steps. He jumps out of bed.

"Awesome! I'll be there in five."

He puts down his phone and whispers, very quietly, to himself.

"Hang in there, Sammy. I'm coming."

~O~

Baby steps was right. It is NOT a fast process. Setbacks follow setbacks. It takes almost three months before they can reliably reproduce the fly experiment.

"It's no use," grumbles Kevin.

He scrapes a board duster through the scribbled formulae on his whiteboard yet again.

"There's no way I can pinpoint the date and time with the accuracy we need. The chronometry is overly unstable at that range, the time stream is simply too erratic, and the angel feather refuses to completely stabilize and act like the precision instrument it isn't."

Dean stops working on the feather assembly framework he has been fixing up.

"Dude, I WAS counting on making the day of my backyard cookout. You saying we can't hit that?" He sighs. "The whole previous year, I got no clue where exactly Sam was at. But, hey, any time before the guy leaves for Antarctica works for me. Wasn't expecting the thing to land on a dime."

Kevin huffs and flops into a chair.

"Sorry, Dean, but we gotta go for a date way more recent. As recent as we can. Even then it's gonna be touch and go we get this machine and its payload there without any damage. The turbulence alone could shake it apart."

Dean leans against the workbench and looks thoughtful for a second.

"So you're saying we should go for the day, uh, the day of the, um, explosion?"

Even now he finds it difficult to speak about the events of that fateful day that took his brother from him.

Kevin nods. "Yeah. That's our Event Horizon. I'm confident I can get it there with maybe a couple days leeway at most, but it'll have to be close."

Dean considers. "We'll be cutting it damn fine. But that'll have to do, I guess."

Turning back to his work, Dean cheers a little inside. For one awful moment he thought Kevin was going to say it couldn't be done at all. He isn't sure his heart could take it if they had to call the whole thing off after all their work, dashing his last hope.

He hasn't told Kevin he means to be the payload in their machine. If the kid knew, he would surely try to talk sense into him, and Dean doesn't need to be lectured on the perils of time travel. He is already more scared of NOT going. No matter what, he has got to get to Sam, even if that means freezing his nuts off in Antarctica. And at least his brother will be there for certain.

Dean has seen photos - photos of Huge Attraction, a cold and lonely outpost now blasted into matchwood - with the smiling faces of strangers indistinguishable in their heavy-duty winter gear. Indistinguishable aside from that one guy, real tall, unmistakable. Sam.

He subdues the wistful daydream and applies himself to his work. They still have a chance. It should be hard to miss as big a target as Sam. As long as the time device gets Dean there sometime BEFORE the place is wiped clean off of the map, he still has a chance.

And he is more than ready to take any chance he can get.

"Kid, you work that whiteboard. You hear?"

~O~

Timeline: Kevin's rented office unit - Another two months later

It takes another couple months, two more auto shops sold off and a long series of bench tests later before they even think about getting the apparatus out of the laboratory and building an actual time vehicle. Dean, a keen fan of the 'Back to the Future' franchise, suggests they build it into his Impala, the perfect power source.

He decides to install the rig for the power booster in the Impala's trunk.

"What's all that crap you have in there?" Kevin stands beside Dean as he lifts the lid.

"Uh, tools?" Dean scoffs as he gets down to unloading everything into a plastic crate he has brought down for the purpose.

Kevin kicks the crate. "Old shop tools? Not exactly cutting-edge, huh?"

He wonders why Dean has been dragging around a trunkload of dirty old mechanic's tools. Doesn't he have newer and better at his shop?

Dean stops unloading and shoots him a look. "They're my DAD'S tools."

Enough said. Kevin gets it. He has almost nothing of his own father's. Stuff like that he couldn't throw out either.

While Kevin tinkers with the feather assembly beneath the hood, Dean connects up the power leads so he can make the delicate adjustments to the temporal regulator.

"She's not exactly a DeLorean," comments Kevin, archly. "But I guess she'll do."

Dean immediately jumps to the defence of his car.

"My baby could wipe the floor with that freakin' DeLorean. Not gonna chance time-hopping in anything I'm not one hundred percent comfortable with. I trust my baby."

He pats the Impala's hard top. Kevin puts down his screwdriver and steps back from under the hood.

"Dean! Tell me you are NOT thinking of time-travelling in this thing yourself. Because I've never been in favour of human testing, and I'm not starting with my friends."

Dean does an eye roll. "Kevin, I gotta go back and save Sammy. You know that was ALWAYS what this was about."

Kevin sort of knew but he shakes his head nonetheless.

"Sure. But wasn't the idea we use the machine to warn him somehow, send him a message, spares, supplies, whatever. YOU don't need to ride along. This machine is only a prototype. We don't know what it would do to human cells. You'd be beyond crazy to risk it."

Dean isn't listening. He was in this thing for the full ride right from the start. He isn't going to try mailing his brother some bits and pieces with a covering letter and hope it works out. He needs to run to Sam and grab him out of the path of danger with his own hands. Every drop of his big brother instinct demands he do it.

"I AM crazy, Kevin. Gotta do this. I know it'll be a one-way trip and there's no guarantee I can even get to him, but if there's ANY chance I gotta take it." He shrugs. "At least I'll get to see him one last time."

Kevin has always suspected Dean would pull this. He guessed the guy was close to suicidal when they met, but hoped he had gotten over it. Now he realizes working together on their project may have lifted Dean's spirits a little but it hasn't affected his single-minded determination to save his brother, or die trying.

He considers for a minute and relents. He could try to convince Dean to give up his stupid plan, and he badly wants to, but the guy has been getting increasingly unstable lately. He really doesn't think Dean is capable of changing course anymore.

"OK. I guess there's no point tryna talk you out of it."

He knows by now just how mulish Dean can be when he has set his mind on something. He sighs resignedly.

"Then I guess, while I'm working on the tachyon-regulator, you'll wanna spend some time reinforcing the safety cell and making it as impact-proof as possible?"

That is not so much a suggestion as an order. He hopes Dean doesn't mean to ride this thing bareback, but he wouldn't put it past him.

"If we're gonna get you there you wanna be more than an icky stain on the upholstery."

Dean is surprised he caved so easily. "Don't worry, kid. Gonna have this thing safe as a freakin' baby's crib."

Kevin smiles. He prays what they are building here doesn't wind up less of a cradle, more of a casket.

~O~

Converting the Impala into a one-man time-vehicle becomes a literal labour of love for Dean for the next few weeks.

First up, he knows he is going to need something specialized to absorb the shock of what promises to be a big dipper ride through the fourth dimension. He hits the internet. After a spot of net-surfing, he orders an inflatable rubberized impact capsule filled with a breathable fluid to form a womb-like protective bubble.

Yes, you can get almost anything on the net if you don't care what suspicious quasi-military web site you use.

The squashy, rubbery pod that arrives by courier the next day soon sits wedged in the Impala, in place of the ripped-out front seats. Dean admires his handiwork.

"Kinda looks like one humongous, sun-kissed bazonga squished up tight in a steel corset. You sure you don't wanna come with? Make it a perfect pair?"

Kevin, standing beside him, grimaces at both concepts.

"Oh no, Dean. I'm planning on staying right here and documenting the whole fiasco, thank you."

Dean scoffs. "Fiasco phooey. Got my life riding on this perfecta. She's gonna make it right to the finish line."

"Let's hope you're right." Kevin gets back to his calculations. "Just don't let your breast fixation get in the way of your work. OK?"

Dean laughs. "Don't worry, kid. I'm on it."

He grins wide as he pulls a black and yellow two-piece wetsuit out of a shipping box. Mindful of the harsh climate of Antarctica, he kitted himself out with top-of-the-line insulation against the cold. The suit comes complete with yellow insulated bootees. Although he despises them, he can't wear his regular heavy boots inside the bubble without risk of ripping its membrane.

"Well, this baby oughta keep the icicles out of my shorts."

Which is sensible. However Kevin notices him pick up a pistol and start to load it. Not so sensible.

"You're not gonna need THAT," the younger guy points out, waving a pencil in his general direction.

Dean protests. "Cranky-ass polar bears? Duh."

"That's a common misconception, Dean, but there are no polar bears in the Antarctic. Worst you're gonna run into where you're going is a grouchy seal or maybe a cranky penguin."

His friend pouts, disappointed. Kevin swaps him a box cutter for his gun.

"This'll be more use to you."

The cutter is a red plastic thing with a thumb-operated, very sharp, retractable metal blade. It may help him escape from the inflatable pod but it won't be much use against any kind of a bear.

Dean accepts it with a sneer. It somehow offends his masculinity. As a true-blue American, doesn't he have a God-given right to carry a gun if he wants too? Not in Antarctica apparently.

"Oh, sure. Now I'm totally tooled up."

He stows it away in the little pocket of his wet suit designed for, well, a PROPER knife. Then he pats the hood of the Impala.

"So, Kevin, what're we gonna call her?"

His friend chews that over for a second.

"I'd go with something like Temporal Speedwagon. Or, uh, Chrono-Chevy?"

"Wha-? Hell no." Dean grins broadly. "Got it. We'll call her the-" Dramatic pause. "The TEMPALA."

He leans in and checks out her updated dashboard with a critical eye.

"Shouldn't she have, I dunno, a row of brass tumblers and maybe one humongous lever?"

Kevin laughs. "You talking Rod's machine or Guy's? H. G. Wells meets Hollywood, huh? Nuh-uh. The temporal coordinates will be locked in. All she needs is-" He points out a big red push button. "THIS is the Time-slip Actuator. One push and vroom, vroom, vamoose!"

Pretty soon afterward they are finally all set for a definitive live trial. Dean is totally hot to go but Kevin points out they need to wait for the Tempala's definitive live trial to show up before they actually do it for real.

Dean sits around grumbling while Kevin scans the local fishing supplies store's website for something that doesn't look too cute to act as test pilot. The flies that survived the bench testing seem to have wised up, and after bumping the paper cover off of the glass jar Kevin was keeping them in, skedaddled someplace in the night.

Despite Dean champing at the bit, they do manage to wait two whole days.

~O~

The following Friday about noon, Kevin shoulders open the lobby door and awkwardly pushes his way in. Both his hands are occupied with his lunch order - burgers, fries, onion rings, today's special pie - and coffee in a cardboard tray. He and Dean have been getting through a LOT of junk food lately and this waiting around has been making them hungrier than ever.

He gets in the elevator but is only half way to his floor when the lights flicker and the car violently jerks. Kevin picks himself up from a corner and utters a mild curse. The coffee slopped all over him.

When the elevator car does reach his floor, the young man jumps out and hurries down the passageway to his lab, leaving his spilled purchases in the car. He quickly opens the door and runs inside, where he stands horrified.

The room is filled with a bright blue swirling light. A deafening screech makes him clap his hands over both ears.

"DEAN!" he yells into the din.

But it is too late. The munchies were a ruse. Dean suckered him, sending him for take-out. He got tired of waiting, gave up on the live trial and went for the live run. The parrotfish Kevin bought is still swimming around in its jar on the shelf but the Tempala has gone. Dean's protective gear has gone. Dean has gone.

Dean has STOLEN the Tempala! One way or another, he won't be coming back.

"You let him go," Kevin accuses the fish, pointlessly.

It stares back popeyed. After a second, he notices a hastily scribbled Postit note stuck to his whiteboard.

It reads:

 **SORRY, KEVIN**

 **HAD TO GO**

 **SAMMY NEEDS ME**

 **BYE & THANKS, DEAN**

~O~

Timeline: Somewhere in The Time Vortex

He is someplace in the temporal vortex, crammed inside his safety bubble, crammed inside the Tempala, folded into himself like the whorl of leaves inside an unopened bud, a foetus in a dayglow rubber womb.

"Wouldn't you know it," Dean thinks. "Time travel is a cranky BITCH."

He is unsurprised to find the experience very far from 'The Terminator' or 'Doctor Who', or any other CGI depiction of time-travel, he has ever seen. No fake lightning flashes here, no synthesized radiophonic sound, no howlround, only pitch black endless silence, boundless nothingness.

Only THIS nothingness roils and moils and flings the Tempala every which way.

Curled up in his rubber egg, arms wrapped tight around his knees, reality is left behind as he gets sucked down and down through the giant invisible maelstrom of time. He falls, falls, falls, choking liquid air in his mouth and nose, the taste of vomit in the back of his throat, on a cosmic big dipper.

This should be terrifying, but crap, it is MIND-BLOWING. More than mind-blowing, this is WOW!

He has been a speed-freak ever since he was a teenager, barrelling down the blacktop in his dad's muscle car. Who would ever have guessed his Impala would someday power down THIS lonesome highway? Jeez, he could ride this wild road forever.

"Baby, we are AWESOME!"

But the chronoscope bleeping in the dashboard is already going crazy. The feather assembly shudders, ready to burst apart. Then, right before everything gets REALLY hair-raising, it all stops.

Stops DEAD.

~O~

Timeline: Site 43, Antarctica - Three days ago

OOH OOH WOE OH... WOE OOH OH...

The eerie groaning of the interminable gale. The wind speed was unusually high three days ago.

The Tempala suddenly IS at Site 43, several miles north-west of Huge Attraction ice-station - not too bad - but some ten meters BENEATH the surface of the permanent ice sheet - definitely not good. Nothing more than a weak pulse of microwave radiation, a faint and disregarded blip on the station radar, signals her arrival.

Dean's chronoscope was out a couple surface miles and several meters depth. And those meters are crucial. Kevin knew this could happen, but Dean didn't give him the chance to properly calibrate the sucker. Now it is too late.

The distortion effect of the time apparatus greatly disrupts the local magnetic field, something only migrating birds would notice. The growl of ice undergoing unnatural compression causes a couple concerned penguins to hurry up their waddle a mite, but otherwise there is no indication that anything unusual has happened.

South polar wind blows across the desolate surface as before. A wolf-howl over the lonesome snow dunes.

WOE OOH OH... OOH OH WOE...

Dean has been torpid since the nanosecond he hit the Big Red Button. Now, inside his protective sphere of oxygenated liquid, he remains suspended, seemingly lifeless, like the worm submerged in a bottle of tequila. He may stay undisturbed until the Tempala, and his body, become one with the ice-pack, caught like some prehistoric insect in a piece of ancient amber. Forever.

But then they find him.

Physical vitality won't return until he thaws. The destruction of the Tempala around him does little to hasten the process. Only the relative warmth of the tractor garage can do that.

Before long, it does.

TBC

A/N: I notice not so many people are reading this one. I hope your not put off by Sam's apparent death. Because you should know I like happy endings.


	8. Chapter 8: Flipside

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone. Now let's see what Dean gets up to. Remember we are back to 'today' again.

Howlround (Chapter VIII: Flipside) by frostygossamer

Timeline: Huge Attraction Ice-station - Today

Dean's consciousness comes back to him drop by drop. Awareness of his surroundings follows close behind.

Dark. Wet. Painfully cramped. Jeez, is it cramped.

He asks himself why did he have to be six foot plus of long legs and perfectly proportioned torso? Why did he have to have shoulders like a greek god? Why did he ever think he could survive in a module designed for a freakin' chimp?

His body aches for release from this torture in the worst way. Twitching like a tadpole ready to hatch, he feels desperately with numbed fingers for his box cutter. He is soon stabbing recklessly and blindly at the tough, elastic wall of his prison.

Jab. Jab. Rip. Slurp...

The pod collapses and he slides from the part melted ice block to the ground, spluttering, tearing at the rubberized membrane, gasping for real air. He lies on the cold wet floor for a spell, the cutter slipping from his fingers, coughing up fluid like a dying fish until his senses come back on-line.

He becomes dimly aware there is now someone kneeling at his side, trying to shake him awake. Kevin? His eyes are blurry and unfocussed. He struggles to make sense of what is going on.

"Hey there! Wake up, fella!" Someone is speaking gruffly to him. Not Kevin.

Dean waves his hands around, finding and locking onto an arm and pulling himself up into a sitting position. The stranger helps him to sit up.

"Help. H-help me. I-I gotta," Dean stutters, his windpipe gurgly with oxy-fluid.

"You gotta what?" The voice sounds incongruously angry. "Who in Hades are you anyways? Where'd you come from? Why're you here?"

Dean's eyes at last clear and he finds himself staring in the face of a chunky guy with a stubbly beard and heavy brow. He can barely make out the name tape on his shirt as it swims before him. He speaks, his voice croaky and halting, interrupted by chesty hacking.

"Uh, Roy? I, uh, I need to find my brother." Cough. "Sam Winchester. I gotta warn him. Gotta warn you all." Cough. "You gotta stop what you're doing. Right now." Cough. "It's gonna kill everyone. Gotta stop you."

Roy lands a punch square on Dean's jaw then reaches inside his jacket for a knife. He brings out a mean blade with a bony handle and a vicious point.

"Dunno what you're doing here, buddy, but you're not part of the plan. So goodbye, pal."

This is so NOT what Dean expected. What is with this guy? Is he completely insane?

Suddenly all the way conscious, the super-oxygenated blood coursing through his veins helps Dean react fast to the attack. He is on his hands and knees in a blink, fingers fumbling for the box cutter where he dropped it. He curses Kevin for not letting him pack a gun to defend himself.

He swings the cutter in a wide arc, forcing his assailant to jump backward to avoid it. Dean completely misses him. Roy gives a cold laugh and juggles his knife from hand to hand. Compared to Dean's small plasticky toy, Roy's knife is a big mother with a murderously sharp blade. Dean inhales. Talk about unprepared?

Luckily for him, Dean made the high school wrestling team. He has moves. But Roy is a dirty fighter. The second time he is thrown up against the hut wall, Dean slides to the floor and plays dead until Roy stands right over him with a nasty grin on his bristly face. Then Dean lashes out with his small weapon and connects.

The cutter gouges a raw chunk out of Roy's thigh, but strangely, he isn't fazed. Chuckling, the guy watches as the jagged wound closes over and heals before Dean's astonished eyes. What is this guy? Dean lunges at him and slams him back against a worktable. The snicker slices bloodily across the guy's chest but again it heals.

"Is this guy indestructible? Am I even awake yet?" thinks Dean. "This is like some bad freakin' trip."

Now Roy has Dean in an arm lock, big knife poised over his heart. Dean elbows him in the face, bumping the big blade from his hand. Jumping on it, Dean dodges back up, waving the knife between them. Roy's demeanour completely changes. He looks at his own knife with scared eyes. Dean notices the alteration.

"Oh, yeah," he taunts. "Not so brave around THIS little baby, huh?"

So he isn't proof to his own blade? Good to know. Roy growls in response.

Running at the other man, Dean succeeds in knocking him off balance and he careers backward, upsetting a box of tools with a loud clatter of metal. Dean follows up with a round kick to the ass and Roy staggers forward blindly, bangs his head on the front of a snowcat, and falls flat on the floor out cold.

Dean blows out an exhausted breath and pulls himself upright. Looking around he spots a box of cable ties on a shelf and speedily binds the unconscious man's hands tight behind his back. He sticks the guy's knife in his own belt and tosses the box cutter over his shoulder into the general clutter of spilled tools.

When his breathing has returned to normal, Dean rolls the guy over on his back and throws a cup of chilly meltwater in his ugly face. He comes around coughing and cussing, struggling against the tough plastic ties. He scrambles to sit up. Dean slaps him down hard with the back of his hand and growls.

"Roy! Whatever you freakin' are. You better tell me where's my brother. And tell me RIGHT NOW, assface!"

The guy on the floor gives a vicious laugh and leans up on one elbow.

"You think THIS is Roy? All this is is some crap-ugly meatsuit I POSSESSED. The dope called himself Roy is long gone. Come to save this bunch of bleeding heart do-gooders? You're too damn late, pal. We already got most of 'em. Rest'll go the same way soon enough."

"Possessed?!" Dean balks at that word. "What the hell IS this? Child's freakin' Play?"

The guy does an eye-roll. "I'm a DEMON, jughead. Get it now? We're taking over this little Ice Show. First step in our diabolic plan for dominion of Earth, get it?"

World domination? Dean can't believe his ears. What has he fallen into? Armageddon? Anywhere but Antarctica he wouldn't have believed it. Right now, with his brain a little scrambled, he could buy into anything. He grabs the demon's knife from his waistband and shoves it close up under his throat.

"OK. Let me have this Plan 9 of yours."

But Roy has managed to drag one hand free of the cable ties, nearly sawing off a thumb to do it. He lashes out at Dean, catching him short, slamming the blade from his fist. They scrabble on the floor together like street dogs, but Dean's arms are longer, and on his stomach stretched full length, he gets to the knife a fraction before the demon. He lands heavily on Dean's back.

Flipping them over, Dean rolls the stockier guy under him. Both pairs of hands are on the hilt of the knife for a beat then Dean puts a knee in his nuts and wrests back control. Driven by desperation and adrenaline, he plunges the blade deep into his adversary's heart.

Roy's face contorts in agony. Panting, Dean drags himself away from him. He automatically covers his own mouth with a hand when he is shocked to see the man's lips open wide and a stream of foul black smoke issue forth. It circles lazily in the cold hut air and finally disappears through a gap in the wall panels.

Now THAT isn't normal. Not natural. Supernatural? Maybe. Dean is beginning to get it. Possession. Demonic possession. He has heard of that from movies. Jeez! Has he gone back in time or gotten lost in Bizarro World?

Dean takes a deep breath and eases the knife out of the guy's chest. Blech! He wipes the blade clean on Roy's shirt and stows it back in his belt.

He is going to need it again.

OK, so what the Sam Hill is going on in this place? Dean expected to show up, warn everyone about the impending gas explosion, and hopefully, convince them to evacuate the station until safety checks can be made. Job done. He never expected to find himself in the middle of a plot by demons out to take over the Earth. Possession? Meatsuit? Jeez, this is like something straight from a late night cable horror movie.

Phew! He needs to take a moment to decide what to do. He spots Roy's bottle of whiskey on his workstation. When was the last time he had a drink? Dean pulls a chair right up beside Roy's space heater and helps himself to a bracing shot. Whew, so much better.

Now what?

First of all, he has got to find Sam. Yeah, but what if the demons have already gotten to his brother? Somehow he has to find out which of the research station personnel are human and which aren't.

If Sam isn't one of them someone is going to PAY!

A quick look at Roy's watch tells Dean it is officially night, despite the 24/7 twilight outside. Everyone on the ice-station should be asleep. He decides to wait until the station wakes up to make his first move. Meanwhile, the warmth of the little heater is evaporating the residue of the breathable fluid off of his skin and clothing. He begins to dry out, warmth returning to his limbs.

After a short while, he decides to disable the two cat track vehicles. Best if he can keep any demons isolated while he works out who is who. Or what. He snarfs a couple small but vital engine parts. He has to prevent the demons repairing the two machines. Then he sits back down to wait.

Soon he slips into a doze...

~O~

...until he is disturbed by a rattling at the door.

Glancing up sharply, he realizes he has been sitting here too long. Morning has arrived and someone is letting themselves in the hut. Dean hauls Roy's inert body into his chair and hides himself behind the big cat. Whoever this is could be another demon. His fingers grip the handle of Roy's knife, ready for whatever goes down when the door opens.

It looks like the new guy has come to check on Roy and probably bring him inside for breakfast. He is in for a surprise.

The newcomer, a robust and clean-shaven Nordic type, steps inside the hut, stamping his feet, and spots Roy to all appearances asleep on the job. Dean edges behind the snowcat as he spots the melted ice block and goes to check out the remains of Dean's pod.

Dean ducks back out of sight when the guy shakes Roy and his inert body falls to the floor. Cursing, the stranger brings out a big knife which glints evilly in the glare of the bare light bulb above them.

It is the same ugly-looking knife Roy pulled!

"Another freakin' demon?" wonders Dean. "Those ugly stickers standard issue or what?"

He braces himself for another fight. Luckily the likely demon heads for the door, leaving it standing open to the Antarctic windstorm in his haste to flee.

For now.

Dean thanks God the second guy chose to get out stat, but he guesses he will be back soon - and with reinforcements - so he takes the opportunity to slip outside and disappear into the bitter wind.

Yikes, is it cold!

~O~

Outside in the icy cold and chilling gale, Dean realizes he won't last long in the open even in his thermally insulated wetsuit. He needs to get warm again soon. From a safe distance he observes the knife guy return to the hut with a small man carrying a doctor's bag and a tall figure. Sam.

Yay, his baby brother Sam!

Dean's heart leaps a little in his chest. His Sam! Alive! Ah, but why is Sam with the possible demon? Is he also possessed? Is Dean too late? He needs to find out the truth before he even tries to get close to his brother.

Dodging behind a bank of snow, he watches the little group enter the Nissen hut. His eyes remain glued to the door waiting for them to re-emerge.

Shortly after they arrive, the group reappear and make their way back to the main building. With them off of the scene, Dean returns to the hut, where he discovers the door has been padlocked. By this time he is beginning to get a little hypothermic. He knows he needs to get warmed up again and soon. Snow has gotten into his stupid-ass bootees and his fingers are almost numb. Leaving the garage hut behind, he trudges over to the main building through the deepening blizzard and searches for an alternate way in.

He eventually finds a poorly sealed fire-door in the station's accommodations annex and slips inside. He only narrowly avoids four guys who are wandering around checking out the building. He guesses they are looking for whoever offed Roy.

It seems he has ducked into some sort of radio shack. He examines the equipment. Tools and circuits from the long-range transmitter are spread out all over the place. Someone has been working on it but it looks like they gave up.

"Explains why the station was out of contact right before the explosion," he mutters to himself.

He notices a walkie-talkie base booster and decides to disable that too. There is no point in letting the freaks communicate with each other. There may be more of them out there, for all he knows. He rips out a handful of wires and snaffles a small tool he can use as a lockpick.

With the radio equipment safely dead, Dean peeks out into the passageway. The search party seems to have moved on. He makes his way to the nearest bedroom to look for real boots and something warmer to wear.

~O~

The name on the first bedroom door is Bobby Singer. Dean goes straight for the spare boots Singer left by the door. Rummaging in a drawer for a dry pair of socks to go with them, he notices three framed photos on the nightstand.

One is a shot of a bearded guy in a monkey suit posing with his beaming bride. The next is of the same guy older. He is carousing in some bar with his buds, big smile on all their faces. The third shows the same older guy cuddling up with a different woman.

Dean smirks. "Singer, you old dog."

He pulls the boots on over freshly stockinged feet and tosses his own sodden footwear out the window where they disappear under the snow.

The next room he enters is labelled Rufus Turner. Turner has a whole album of photographs beside his bed. Some of them have Singer in them too but the common denominator is a thin, middle-aged black guy. That has to be Turner himself. It looks like he gets around some, that guy. Also on the nightstand is a smartphone, earbuds attached. Dean glances through his playlist. Manilow? Demis Roussos? Jeez! Who'da thunk?

He needs a warmer coat. The point of Roy's knife tore some ugly rips in his wetsuit jacket. He unzips and peels it back. Beneath the rubber, patches of his sore, bare skin are red raw from cold. He touches the flesh with his fingertips and winces.

Poking around in Turner's locker, he selects a very cosy looking parka and quickly pulls it on. Checking out the pockets he finds a mitten stuffed in each. Now this is more like it. He finally starts to get some heat back in his body.

When he sneaks in the room across from Turner's, Dean is immediately struck by the difference. He checks the door. This is Roy's, his friendly meet-and-greet demon. No photos in this room. No memorabilia. Nothing personal whatsoever. Well, this guy was a self-confessed demon. Dean guesses the demonic won't be majorly into sentiment. It strikes him he has found a rough and ready way to distinguish between the demon-possessed and surviving humans. Awesome!

The next room belongs to Walt and Dean doesn't even need to go in to know exactly what the guy is. The room is austere as a prison cell, but without the obligatory sexy pin-ups. Even without the framed cross-stitch of Hell entitled 'Home Sweet Home' it doesn't leave much space for error.

Adjacent to Walt's room is Sam's. Dean pauses a second to run a finger over Sam's nameplate before going inside and closing the door behind him. This room is pretty spartan too. Worryingly, there isn't a thing on the night table except a well-thumbed paperback edition of Lonely Planet's 'Antarctica: A Travel Survival Kit'.

"Nerd," mumbles Dean, affectionately.

He checks in the top drawer and finds a photo frame lying on its face. He takes it out and looks at it. It is the snap of him and the folks down at the auto repair shop that Sam took a couple years ago. They had won some kind of award? Sam was proud of him back then.

Taking a seat on Sam's bed, he stares at the photo blankly for seconds. He didn't even know Sam kept that picture. But what does it mean that it was consigned to a drawer? Face down? Is that something a demon would do? Or something a mad-at-him brother would do? The jury seems to be out on Sam.

Shrugging, Dean gets up to leave, but before he goes he takes out Roy's demon knife and slides it under his brother's pillow. If Sam is human he could use an effective weapon to defend himself. If he isn't, well, it couldn't hurt much.

He has hardly stepped through the next doorway when he is surprised by the room's owner, Walker, coming up behind him.

"Turner-" Walker begins, recognizing the coat, then instantly realizes his mistake.

It has taken Dean less than a second to register Walker's room is far from homelike and he is already on his guard. Walker jumps on Dean before he can even turn around to face him and they struggle.

Walker growls in Dean's ear. "So you're the buttinski that showed up to mess with our perfect plan, huh?"

Dean shoves Walker back against the metal framed bed, jamming his fist up under Walker's jaw, effectively preventing him from crying out and so bringing help. Walker reaches inside his quilted vest, his fingers fighting with Dean's to fold around the hilt of his knife.

Walker jerks the knife out of his grasp and the blade makes glancing contact with Dean's left ear, snicking a shallow cut which nonetheless bleeds profusely.

"Human scum, prepare to die knowing our scheme means any ONE of us has the power to END mankind," he hisses.

But Dean grabs his arm and twists hard until the guy's fingers release their grip. He grabs the knife and drags it across Walker's exposed throat leaving a bloody gash. The demon gurgles out a final curse.

Dean backs away, panting, the demon's blade in his hand. Blind instinct was all that saved him. He watches as that same ugly black smoke pours from Walker's slack mouth and vanishes through a chink where the corrugated wall panels don't quite meet up.

Touching his ear, Dean's fingers come away wet. Though he tries to wipe the blood off of his face with his parka's sleeve, it continues to drip down his chin and onto the floor.

He hears others approaching along the passageway outside. He has to get out of here before he gets caught. Flinging open Walker's window, he hesitates a moment before climbing out into the snow. He hobbles away right as someone pushes Walker's door all the way open and a woman screams.

So any ONE of these guys can end mankind? Well, Dean is going to see that doesn't happen. He will come back later to check out the rest of the station's personnel. He has to eliminate every demon in the place.

He hopes to God that doesn't include his brother.

TBC

A/N: Dean has a much bigger task ahead than he expected. Just as well our Dean is up to man enough for the job. More soon.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: The chapter we're finding out what was going on in the background right up till THAT moment and beyond.

Howlround (Chapter IX) by frostygossamer

With nowhere else to go, Dean returns to the Quonset hut to wait until everything metaphorically cools down. Using the improvised lockpick, he lets himself in and carefully closes the door behind him.

The hut has gotten mighty cold.

He daren't switch on a light but he finds the heater and warms himself a little. It is lucky he was able to steal a thick coat because his wetsuit is looking kind of shabby now. Knife fights will do that. Hungry and alone in the semidarkness, he polishes off Roy's bottle of Jack and a half package of hard lemon candy he found after combing through every cabinet and drawer in the place.

A couple hours later Dean decides he can't wait any longer. The time has come to act. Regular guy Dean is a man of peace but he has already offed two demons in self-defence. Now he is going to have to man up and take it to the rest before they can make a move.

He will start with the other guy with a monk's cell, Walt. The guy smells like a demon to Dean. As well as Walker's demon knife, he takes a heavy metal bar along with him. He may need to smash his way in.

Dean peers in Walt's window from outside. No one home. The window isn't hard to open. Clearly whoever put up these shacks didn't expect cranky penguins to be particularly interested in house-breaking.

Once he is inside the room, Dean secretes himself in a closet to wait for Walt to return.

~O~

When the occupant of the room shows up, Dean instantly recognises him as the second guy from the hut. So, yeah, definitely demon. Unfortunately, he is accompanied by another smaller guy, doctor's bag guy. Dean hesitates to take on two at one time. And he doesn't know the short guy's bona fides yet anyway.

"So how're we gonna do this?" asks Walt.

"We go through the motions," answers the doc in a bored tone.

He stands with his back to the closet grinning as Walt pulls his hoodie up over his head, momentarily covering his face. With both men's attention diverted, Dean takes the opportunity to step out of the closet and whop the shorter guy upside the head with his metal bar.

From inside his sweatshirt, Walt hears the doctor's surprised "Oof!", followed by the sound of his body hitting the floor, and flings off the hoodie. "Hey!"

Dean lunges at him, face grim and determined, knocking him to the floor, and sticks Walker's blade right in his guts, twisting. The guy doesn't have time to react. He convulses once and falls silent. The black smoke does its thing.

Wiping the blade on Walt's shirt, Dean replaces it in his pocket. Killing is starting to come disturbingly easy to him. And he isn't done yet. He needs to check out the remaining team members. He lets his eyes fall closed, steeling himself for what he has still to do.

Behind him, he hears the doctor starting to groggily move around. This guy is an unknown quantity, so Dean elects to hide out a while in Sam's empty room until he can seek out his next target.

Three more could-be demons left. Or is it four?

Chaos kicks off in the hall while Dean lies hidden under his brother's bed, his nose a little too close to Sam's sweaty thong sandals. He hears the commotion surrounding Crowley and the noisy discussion of what should be done with him. It seems the doctor is the main suspect in Walt's killing. Eventually the guy is marched away. Dean decides his judgement can wait a while.

Once Crowley is squirreled away, the station grows quiet again. Across the hall Dean can hear Singer and Turner preparing for a walk outside on the frozen snow. He wonders why they are braving the outdoors when he can see through Sam's window the blizzard has picked up to a near whiteout intensity. They will be close to blind out there.

But they ARE human. Maybe if he can catch up with them alone outside he can talk them into helping him out. He could sure do with some backup in this thing.

With that in mind, Dean gingerly slides open Sam's window and slips back out into the snow.

~O~

Out of doors the visibility is even worse than Dean had expected. He has to fight to keep his feet in the biting, lashing gale now swirling around the station's buildings. He isn't used to walking in these conditions and manages to lose his footing and fall a couple times.

He is soon struggling to follow in Singer and Turner's vanishing boot prints now new-fallen flakes blur their outlines. Close to being totally lost, he at last glimpses the two figures through the curtain of snow and is surprised to see they have been joined by a third individual.

Dean hesitates to approach this mystery man. He instead flattens himself in the snow to observe the three as they approach the outbuilding they were apparently aiming for. The well-built newcomer walks ahead with a certain air of military authority while the other two follow meekly behind. Dean is too far away to hear their conversation but the new man seems to be giving the orders.

"Looks like maybe whatsisname the boss guy?" Dean surmises.

He can't summon up the name of the guy Sam told him he would be reporting to. He makes a mental note to listen to his brother more. If he gets him home he will do everything with him more. Debating with himself whether he should approach the group, he sees them come to a halt outside a small building with 'DANGER! Explosives KEEP OUT' stencilled on its door.

Turner gets out a key and is unlocking the store when suddenly Bossguy draws a pistol on the other men. Singer and Turner put up their hands and back away, but he waves them inside the storehouse.

Bang! Bang! The muffled sound of two shots comes to Dean through the falling snow.

"Son of a bitch," he hisses.

That came out of nowhere. Who guessed Bossguy was a bad guy? No, but it makes sense the chief should be in on the demon deal. And Bossguy packs hardware? No fair. Dean doesn't get to rock a pea shooter, thanks to Kevin, so it is damn lucky he held back. Shame about Bert and Ernie though. He could have used their help.

Bossguy locks up the explosives store and starts back toward the admin block. Dean follows him, far enough behind to avoid being detected. So this guy is a demon too? Dean counts on his mittened fingers. Only three possible survivors left now.

If his brother hasn't already succumbed.

~O~

Once Bossguy is safely out of sight, Dean traipses back to the station and tries the crooked fire-door he used before. He finds it has been nailed up. Clambering through the drifts around the walls to get to Sam's window, he climbs back in, softly closing it behind him.

Shaking snow off of his boots and parka, he creeps into the passageway to take a look around. If, and it is looking like a big if now, Sam is OK he has to go save his brother's ass. Meantime he can check out the one remaining unknown. The woman.

He has his hand on Ellen Harvelle's bedroom doorknob when he hears two voices drawing closer. He quickly ducks into a storeroom and peers out the door's ventilation grill to see who this is. It is a woman, presumably Ellen since she is the only woman Dean has seen around here, and Bossguy. From their demeanour, Dean can see they are flirting around.

Bossguy whispers something in Ellen's ear and Ellen seems to like it. They don't head for Ellen's room, as ladies' man Dean would have expected, but instead walk right past Dean's storeroom and wind up in another room he hasn't checked. Makes sense the oversized room at the end of the hall is probably Bossguy's quarters.

The guy has his hands all over Ellen. Dean tuts. It doesn't look like the woman has a problem with this. But is it because she is a demon also or is she just a little slutty? He tightens his fist around the handle of Walker's demon knife. He won't have much of a chance against two demons. But maybe this woman is human? Shouldn't he try to save her?

While he is arguing with himself, someone else comes along the passageway. Dean inhales.

Sam!

Oddly, Sam seems to be stalking the other two. He moves stealthily up the passage like he is nervous of what he might see and pauses in front of the big boss's room. But he doesn't go in. Craning his neck, Dean can see him sneaking a peek into the bedroom through the crack of the door.

"You a peeper now, huh Sam?" thinks Dean, chuckling inwardly.

From his attitude, Sam isn't enjoying what he sees. Dean watches him take a step back as the sound of female laughter filters from the bedroom, then shudder as a woman's strangled cry and the noise of a body hitting the floor follows. But he doesn't move. He only stands there rigid like he can't take his eyes off of what he is seeing.

Suddenly, he is hurrying toward Dean's storeroom. Dean conceals himself in a dark corner, unseen as Sam opens the storeroom door and slips inside. Relief floods through Dean's veins with the realization Sam's behaviour shows he can't already be one of the demon-possessed. If he were he would be helping Bossguy with whatever evil he is up to not booking it out of sight.

Dean longs to grab his brother and show him how glad he feels to see the guy alive and human too. But the demons are on the move again, and for now, he is forced to stay quiet while Bossguy and the woman walk the hall back to where they came from. He can sense the tension in his brother as they both listen with the same growing nausea to the two demons discussing their evil plan a couple feet away.

The moment they are gone, he moves up behind Sam and puts a gloved hand over his kid brother's mouth. It wouldn't do for Sam to let out a girly scream right about now.

Sam's body stiffens. "Fine," he snaps. "Whatever the HELL you are, go ahead. Do it now!"

~O~

Sam has no way of knowing exactly what huge monstrous thing has grabbed hold of him in the darkness of his closet hideaway. As far as he knows he is alone among aliens and has just walked in the lair of the daddy of them all.

Tough luck. Game over.

So why is it he feels like he has been here before? Hell of a time for deja vu to kick in.

Unexpectedly, the thing goes, "Shush!" right in Sam's ear and continues in a hoarse whisper, "Shut! Up! Those mothers will HEAR your dumb yakety-yak and come right on BACK here."

Sam chokes in surprise and bites down hard on the paw clamped over his mouth. The creature curses softly and lets go of him.

"The hell did you do that for?" it grumbles.

Sam wheels around, drawing his knife, ready to strike, only to find - and he has GOT to be hallucinating - his brother.

Dean is wearing Turner's big fur-lined parka jacket, hanging loose over some sort of wetsuit - kind of hacked up - fur mittens and Singer's spare boots. He is damp and bedraggled, and a trickle of blood from an nasty slashing cut has dried around his left ear.

"What the hell are YOU doing here?" Sam demands. "Man, you look like crap."

Not the fondest greeting he could have come up with.

"Oh, thanks a bunch," Dean retorts. "Kinda makes me feel all warm inside."

Sam can't get his head around this. "Dude, How did you even GET here?"

Dean stops fussing with his fur-gloved hand and grins broadly.

"Now that's a long, long story, Sammy. But first we gotta deal with Dastardly and freakin' Muttley out there."

Still a little dazed, Sam nods and turns toward the door. He grips the doorknob, but Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait, Sam," The humour is gone from his voice. "First I gotta do this."

Sam turns back, baffled. "Do what?"

His brother grabs him in a sudden bear hug that squashes all the air out of his lungs. Momentary shock and deficiency of oxygen makes Sam's hands go limp, dropping the paint spray and matches to the floor. After an uncertain moment, he responds to the hug and places those big hands on his brother's back, gently patting. Dean holds him tight, almost too tight. Sam can feel the warmth of his skin through the wetsuit. He can even feel the beating of his big brother's heart against his chest. It beats like a steam hammer.

To Sam this show of affection is out of line and out of character for his brother. He doesn't have the faintest idea what Dean has been through in the last couple years. If he did he would be the first to argue the guy has a right to overcompensate. Right now he is weirded out.

A few seconds in, he taps Dean on the back, signalling time to let go, but Dean continues to cling to him, his chin buried in the crook of Sam's neck. It should be nice, but it is starting to get embarrassing. Sam doesn't get why his brother is so damn clingy. It isn't like him.

"Dean," he hisses. "Let me go, you dumb-ass."

Dean releases him and sniffs loudly. Is that a manly tear? Surely not.

"Man, you are NOT crying," chides Sam, grinning. "Guess you musta really missed me, huh?"

Dean shoots him a reproachful glare, releasing him. "Oh, Sammy, you so do NOT know."

Confused at not getting the expected comeback, Sam huffs inwardly as they creep out into the passage.

"We catch them off guard, we got a chance," whispers Dean.

Sam nods. "Sure," he agrees. "Two Winchesters, two bad guys. Even bet."

Who knows? Together, maybe they CAN beat the odds.

~O~

Dean, followed closely by Sam, proceeds stealthily down the passageway toward the mess hall. Bizarre as it is, Sam can't help feeling mightily relieved his brother has shown up. Now there are two of them, maybe they have a chance? Somehow nothing ever seems completely hopeless when Dean is around.

Each guy holding their knife, they constantly glance right and left into each room they pass. As they near the mess Dean pauses, Sam closing up behind him. They have a whispered conversation.

"How are we gonna do this?" Sam's tone is low.

"How were YOU planning on doing it, Sam?" his brother hisses.

Sam considers. "I was thinking: take out the aliens with fire-"

Dean stops him short. "Aliens."

"Sure, Dean, they're aliens. Some extraterrestrial freakin' patient zero came down in that spaceship we found. It's killed three guys and uses some kinda gas to spread-"

Dean stops him again. "Not ALIENS, lunkhead, DEMONS. These guys are demons. There was no freakin' spaceship, no freakin' aliens, just demons."

"Ah, so you're saying the tech and the cat guys were killed by demonic beings?"

Yeah, and that sounds perfectly logical. If it wasn't Dean teling him this Sam would have laughed out loud.

"Actually no. Those three guys WERE demons. I took them out." Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "Hey, Sam, it was them or us."  
"You? You took... Oh! It's YOU been sneaking around here." Sam leans against the wall and takes a breath. "So if they're not from outer space then where the crap did freakin' DEMONS come from?"

He has only just managed to get his head around the possibility of aliens. Demons seem like a step beyond. His mind is reeling.

"Don't ask me, Sammy. Van Diemen's Land?" Dean chuckles at his own wit. "Maybe there's an antipodean Hell Gate someplace. Next question, Regis."

"Dude, I'm gonna take your word for it." Sam shakes his head. "Well, um, I guess I was gonna use Rufus's explosives to blow the whole damn place and destroy all traces of the virus. Still works, huh?"

That chimes with what Dean recalls of the fateful events as detailed at the official inquiry into the destruction of the ice-station. First time through this, Sam went up with the big bang. This time, not going to happen.

Dean nods his head. "Figures. Shoulda guessed that was how it went down, Sammy boy."

"Whaddya mean WENT down?"

"Later, Sam."

Dean shows him his hunting knife. "Only these bad boys'll kill them. Found that out the hard way. Demons all carry one. This baby was Walker's."

Sam glances down at his knife - his and Dean's are identical - and Dean notices.

"Yeah, that's one of their blades, Sam. Got it from that first guy. He was Roy, right? He gave me quite some welcome. And FYI a regular knife won't leave a scratch. Somehow I'd guess a regular bullet won't touch them either."

Ahead of them, Campbell and Ellen come back out of the mess hall. Evidently they haven't found Sam where they expected. Sam and Dean duck sharply into the radio shack before they get spotted. They hear Campbell's voice issuing his orders.

"You check the radio shack. I'll check out the lab. Winchester has probably gone back outside. Weather's foul out there. He'll show up soon enough."

Ellen's footsteps turn in their direction.

"What now?" Sam sounds anxious. Dean hushes him with a finger to his own lips.

They crouch behind a workstation as Ellen approaches. There is something different, unfeminine, about the way she moves, different to the real Ellen. Sam's co-worker has definitely left the building.

"She was a good friend," Sam murmurs angrily.

Dean nods and sympathizes, "I hear ya, Sam."

Ellen marches into the radio shack with her hands on her hips and begins to search. Sam reaches out from behind the desk and grabs her ankle, pulling hard. She slams to the floor. Before she can react and scream, he crawls on top of her body, using his weight to hold her down, and claps a hand over her mouth.

"Shut! Up!" he growls.

Dean puts his knife to her neck, snarling, "Recognize this, bitch? One squeak and you're smoke."

Her eyes are like saucers as she trembles, scared. Dean swipes her with the back of his hand, knocking her unconscious. Sam finds some clean-up rags and forces one in her mouth. They gag her and bind her hands and feet, rolling her out of sight under a workstation.

"We can deal with her later, Sammy," whispers Dean. "Now we go get Mr. Big."

TBC

A/N: Reunited at last. Let's hope the boys can save the day. More coming soon.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Now the Winchesters are back together they have catching up to do and Bossguy to deal with.

Howlround (Chapter X) by frostygossamer

Campbell is in Ellen's lab on the other side of the main building, beyond the mess hall. He bents forward, studying the large glass-fronted cabinet where the most promising samples are stored. He moves a couple racks to one side and slides out a metal canister marked C/47. He places it on top of a bench and goes back to rummage in the cabinet again.

As the two Winchesters cross the mess, Dean spots the remainder of Ellen's chocolate lying where she left it on the table. He picks it up and greedily stuffs it in his face.

"Just can't pass up on candy, can you?" Sam remarks.

"Dude," his brother retorts, between chomps. "Haven't eaten since I got here."

There was that half package of lemon drop candy, but who's counting?

Sam ruminates a moment. "So that, uh, 'thing' in the ice. It was YOU, right? How did you-?"

"Well, duh. Sure it was me," responds Dean. "Told you it was a long story, Sam. I'd let you have the full picture, but first we gotta get outta this alive."

Sam looks at his knife. "It was YOU in my room. YOU left me this knife. I thought one of the other guys was tryna frame me."

"Uh-huh. For your protection, kiddo. I checked out all the dorms. Had to nose out which guys were human and which were demon. No sentimental crap, no snaps, no keepsakes equals no humanity, yeah?"

"And you didn't come directly to me why exactly?"

"Checked out your room, Sam, and I know you travel light but I couldn't be sure if they'd gotten to you yet. Then I got interrupted, so I left you that demon-killing silverware, in case." He squeezes his brother's shoulder. "Thank God you're OK, Sammy. The way you ducked in that closet I knew you had to be as freaked as me by those damn black-eyes."

They approach the laboratory with caution. Inside, Campbell is working on his samples, seemingly oblivious.

"He's fixing another batch of Croatian virus," hisses Dean.

"Croatoan," corrects Sam, in an undertone. "Not the guys who invented the necktie."

Trust Sam to slip a factoid in the conversation.

Bent double, Dean sneaks in the lab and hunkers down behind a file cabinet. He signals silently to Sam in the doorway. Sam watches Campbell place a rack of samples beside the canister then turn away to get gloves and instruments.

Dean holds up three fingers and Sam nods. In one, two, THREE they dive on Campbell, shoving him forward into the bench, crushing his face against a wall cabinet. Despite them coming at him from behind, Campbell is able to shrug them both off with one effort. Dean smashes into the steel sink, sending a rack of empty test tubes crashing and shattering in the bowl.

Jeez, Campbell may be a well built guy but he is way stronger than he should be for his age. Sam regains his balance first and picks himself off of the floor, running forward with a growl to tackle Campbell. His former leader pulls him in and grabs his hand, the hand holding the demon knife, keeping it high over his head, shaking it until the blade drops from Sam's grasp, clattering among the lab equipment.

Something of an evil laugh escapes the demon's wicked lips. He forces Sam over against the bench and shifts his grip to squeeze tight round Sam's throat. The younger Winchester's face is turning beet-red. Gurg! Dean jumps on Campbell's back, wrapping his arm around the guy's neck, using his weight to pull that bald head backward. He is seething with anger. He hasn't come this far to lose his brother now.

With Campbell distracted, Sam is able to break free. He scrambles to retrieve his lost knife from the clutter. No longer hampered by Sam, Campbell turns in Dean's hold and uses his unnatural strength to hurl him up against the wall. Bam! It winds him and Campbell stops to chuckle darkly, but not for long.

Closing in fast, Sam desperately drives his knife up under the monster's fifth rib and turns it, with the sickening scrape of blade on bone.

The demon gasps, whines and slumps, sliding solidly to his knees. He opens his mouth and out spills that same dirty-black flux Sam saw corrupt Ellen. As they watch, the smoke column finds a vent and vanishes out into the frigid air.

"What the hell is with the black crap?" Sam demands, shaken.

"It's the same with all of them, Sam," Dean answers, picking himself up and stowing his weapon. "The demon possesses a human body. They call it a meatsuit. Crazy, huh? That hellacious stench is, I dunno, their ugly tainted soul, I guess. Whatever, it's gone."

Sam pulls a disgusted face and gasps, "And the guy? He's just dead meat, huh?"

Dean lets go a deep breath and smiles, without humour.

"I guess. Take it easy, Sam. Now the douche is gone it won't be back."

They stand panting until their breathing evens out. Sam doesn't know how to feel about stabbing Campbell. He has never taken a life before, not even an animal's. He is almost a veggie, for God's sake.

"I-I- Jeez, Dean, I killed him," he croaks.

Dean nods. "It's good, Sam."

Calmingly, he pats his brother's arm. Sliding Sam's knife out of Campbell's body, he wipes it on his own sleeve and holds it out to him. When Sam doesn't take it, Dean stows it in the big guy's belt for him. Sam pushes him away.

"Damn it, Dean. It's NOT good. I'm a-a pacifist and I just killed a man."

His brother thinks he is being a little picky. "Fire? Explosives? They don't kill?"

Sam sighs. Dean has a point. "Not- not face to face, Dean. It's different somehow."

Dean dismisses that with a sneer. "Wasn't a man anymore, Sammy."

He stalks out of the room. As always, Sam follows.

~O~

Dean has made his way back to the mess hall and Sam finds him ransacking the kitchen for food, slamming cupboard doors and rattling empty pans. Boy, is he fungry. The energy drain he has experienced over the last several hours is really biting back. He would kill for a cheeseburger.

"Sammy, I seriously need to eat something before I implode," he grumbles.

Sam steps in and takes over, grabbing back a package of beancurd his brother is sniffing suspiciously.

"Dude, go sit down and I'll make you something to eat. Then you're gonna tell me what the hell has been going down here, because this whole thing feels freakin' unreal."

Dean pulls out a chair and flops down at the long mess hall table, sighing. Sam can see he looks completely beat. He opens a can of tomato soup and nukes a couple frozen tofu hotdogs.

"Got anything to drink, Sam?"

Sam knows Dean doesn't mean water. He already noticed his brother's hands are starting to shake a little.

"There's a fifth of Jack in the Rec Area. Over by the TV."

Dean gets up to fetch it. He rescues the whiskey bottle from behind a teetering pile of old DVDs - no TV reception in Antarctica - and he has already glugged downed a slug before he gets back to the table. Sam hands him a glass and he pours another, leans back and sighs.

"Ah! Sammy. Sammy. Sammy."

Sam returns to stirring the soup. Without turning around, he remarks, "Man, can you STOP with that."

Dean knits his brows. "What, Sam?"

"That right there. Saying my name all the damn time. You'll wear it out."

Dean didn't realize he was doing it. Only it feels GOOD to say his brother's name out loud again, after so long. Nice to not feel his voice break on that second syllable.

He laughs. "Well, pardon me, Sam." Sam glares at him and he makes a face. "Oh. Kay."

The microwave dings. Sam pours the hot soup from the pan into a bowl, fixes the rolls, brings the whole meal over to his brother and sits down across from him. Dean points to the whiskey bottle but Sam shakes his head. He needs the facts first.

"Talk. I gotta hear this."

Dean finishes the steaming soup in record time then scornfully eyes the tofu-dogs. A loud rumble from his stomach soon alters his opinion. He shrugs, slathers them with ketchup and mustard then chows down.

"Got your last message," he mumbles, his mouth full of dog.

"Oh, yeah? Uh, great, I guess."

Sam is mildly interested. He wondered if his last email had even made it to Tasmania. So it got through? Fine. Not that it matters since the recipient is right here.

"Great?" Dean chokes on his mouthful. "Dude, I said your LAST message, knucklehead. Your final message. Ever."

Sam's brow crumples in a perplexed frown. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Exasperated, Dean waves his second half-eaten hotdog under his brother's nose.

"It means, Sammy, it's taken me a whole MESS of sweat and tears, not to mention a freakin' TRUCKLOAD of hard-earned cash to SHAZAM myself right here and now - to the butthole of oblivion - to SNATCH your scrawny ass outta the grabby paws of freakin' fate."

Wow! Sam holds up his hands.

"Shazam yourself? Dude, wait up. You're getting WAY into Twilight Zone territory here."

"Sure I am," agrees Dean, pushing away his empty plate. "You might wanna fix us some popcorn. 'Cause, brother, this is gonna be one EPIC flashback."

Sam sits spellbound as Dean acts out his entire backstory. He leaves almost nothing out, although he does pretty much skate over the empty heartbreak days directly following the shocking news of his kid brother's tragic death. Those times are way too painful to put into words, especially for an emotionally inarticulate guy like Dean. But Sam knows his big brother well. To him the little hitches, while Dean seeks for glib words to cover up his feelings, are the most eloquent. As always, Dean's eyes speak volumes.

"And that's where YOU show up," he concludes.

"When I holed up in the storeroom. Sure." Sam nods.

"When you hid your scaredy-cat ass in that funkhole, yeah," corrects his brother.

Sam isn't about to let that big-brother put-down pass unchallenged.

"Seem to remember YOU lollygagging in that same storeroom."

Dean grunts. He doesn't appreciate it much when his snarks rebound.

"I was NOT lollygagging. I was SURVEILLING the situation."

"Yeah? Well, likewise."

Dean, having succeeded in diverting attention away from his emotions by annoying his brother, folds his arms and smugly rocks back in his chair. Jeez, he has so missed this.

"And you paid for all this how?" Sam demands. "Had to be one crazy expensive stunt to build a freakin' Time Machine."

"Sold the car repair business. Yeah, Sammy, all five shops. House, savings all gone too. Worth it."

Sam is dismayed. "Aw, man! You loved that business."

Not as much as he loves his only brother, but Dean would never admit that to the guy's face. Awesome big brother Dean would move the Earth for his Sammy but he would blame Global Warming.

"Dude, it was worth every cent to get to ride in a freakin' Time Machine. Seriously, Universal Studios has nothing."

To break the mood, he raps on the table. "Uh, so Sam, you believe me now?"

"Sure, I believe," Sam chuckles. "Man, you don't have the imagination to make all that up by yourself. Though I gotta say there were a couple things I KNOW I've seen on late-night cable."

Dean spreads his hands wide.

"What can I say, Sammy? Sometimes life just imitates the crap outta art."

~O~

As Dean sits stuffing his face with anything edible his brother can find in the kitchen, Sam runs through the guy's backstory in his head. Several times he pauses to look at Dean with a fridge logic question half-formed but each time Dean merely raises an eyebrow silencing him. The big guy's face reflects the doubts and queries passing through his brain. Dean chuckles fondly. The kid is such an open book. He has missed that too.

When Dean is done feeding his face, he sits grinning affectionately across the table at his brother. Sam fidgets under his gaze. Does he have something written on his forehead?

Dean notices his discomfiture and laughs. "You are certainly a sight for sore eyes, bro."

Sam gently scoffs. "Glad you think I was worth it, Dean."

"You were, little brother," Dean assures him. "Dude, woulda done more."

"Really dunno how much more you coulda done."

Sam has to admit Dean amazes him. Who else would have been crazy enough to risk life and limb, and maybe worse, by travelling through space and time to save his sorry ass?

"So, uh, Dean, I guess now we wait for the regular supply plane to get us outta here? You want I get you some dry clothes?"

He checks out the cuts crisscrossing his brother's chest and the slash around his ear. "And Band Aids?"

"Sure," agrees Dean, flapping his hand away. "But before the cavalry gets here, I say we erase the evidence trail. No way can you explain all this freaky crap to the authorities. Not unless you wanna end your days finger-painting in some freakin' mental insane-atorium. May as well let history have its little methane explosion, huh?"

Sam nods. "And you? How're you gonna get back home, time-wise? You do know we accidentally took out your Tempala?"

Dean sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. Their father gave him that car. And all those months he and Kevin worked on her, gone. He knows the Impala was a necessary sacrifice but it does bite.

"Kevin said she'd be unstable," he shrugs sadly. "But I guess it's what she woulda wanted."

His Baby missed the big guy's ass in shotgun anyways.

"So, uh?" Sam raises a questioning eyebrow. "You need a ride, Marty?"

Dean slaps the table with both palms.

"Not going home, Sam. This wa strictly a one-way trip. I messed with the freakin' timeline. Now you're safe MY future ain't gonna happen. Not HERE anyways. Expect I'm gonna wibble-wobble out any time now. My work here is done."

They stare at each other a long moment, but no wibble-wobbling takes place.

After a while, "We missed something?" Dean asks.

Sam searches his memory until a lamp comes on in his head. "Ellen?!" he yelps.

Jumping up, he bolts back to the lab where Ellen is lying trussed up like a turkey waiting for Thanksgiving. He rolls her out from under the unit. Her eyes are big and wild-looking. Dean appears behind him.

"Get her crucifix," grunts Sam. "It's in Campbell's room."

Dean returns a second later with the big gold cross and hands it to Sam. He is mystified by what Sam wants it for. They do have demon-killing knives, right?

"No way is that gonna work," he objects.

"It's all we got," responds Sam.

He isn't going to let Ellen go without trying his damnedest to save her. Ellen has been a mother to the team. She deserves whatever he can do. But he has zero idea what he CAN do.

To start, he pins the woman's shoulder to the floor with his left elbow and presses the heavy crucifix to her heaving breast, right over her heart and HARD. She squirms furiously, as Dean's strong hands restrain her legs, and she fights to scream through her gag. Steam rises from her flesh where the consecrated gold touches bare skin. The flesh bubbles and spits like fat on a griddle. Seems the thing WAS 'genuinely blessed'.

"I cast you out, unclean spirit!" Sam yells in her face. "Be gone from this creature of God! Depart from this servant of God! The power of Christ compels you!"

"Where'd you get all that?" Impressed, Dean is struggling to keep her down.

"Um, it's from 'The Exorcist'," admits Sam, with a half-shrug.

Amazingly, it IS working a little. The demon in Ellen is starting to weaken but it has its foul claws deep in the microbiologist's soul. In desperation Sam bitch-slaps her hard enough to make even Dean flinch, incidentally knocking the gag loose from her mouth. The demon spits full in Sam's face. He wipes off the spittle with the back of his free hand and growls.

"Listen to me, bitch. Your unholy plan is WRECKED. Your homies are freakin' GONE. You're the ONLY one of your loathsome breed left in this place. What're you gonna do against the two of us? It's over. Let go this woman. She's no freakin' use to you now."

The demon smirks up at him, aware Sam cares too much for Ellen to do her any real harm. Dean makes a scoffing sound, then he is shoving Sam aside.

One knee on her abdomen, he winds the heavy chain of the crucifix tight around the demon's neck, twisting it tighter and tighter, making her flail and choke. Gripping Walker's knife firm in his right fist, he presses the sharp point against her throat. A single drop of wine-dark, debased blood oozes from the tip and snakes its course across her white flesh, finding its escape via the cleavage of her heaving bosom.

She gasps. The cold look in Dean's green eyes means business.

"OK. No more monkeying around, bitch. This lady don't mean crap to ME. Anyone is better off dead than polluted with your kind's freakin' hellfire filth. Beat it, douchebag! In three I'm gonna start cutting. Nice thin slices of prime rib. You're gonna enjoy every second. Hell, I know I will. Yeah, I'm gonna fillet you. You wanna know how it feels to be sliced and diced one achingly slow inch at a time? And when I'm good and done I'm gonna ram this blade through your freakin' neck and it's gonna ring my bell but good, capisce? One. Two-"

The demon is quick to stop him. "OK, OK," she gasps. "You win, heartbreaker. It was getting kinda boring around here anyways."

Ellen's mouth opens and smoke curls up from her scarlet lips, black and noisome, disappears out the door, crosses the passageway and vanishes through a small crack in an outside window. Ellen falls soft and limp in Sam's arms, breathing albeit only shallowly.

"Awesome," comments Dean, pleased with his work.

Sam grins. "If I didn't know you, Dean. It couldn't tell you were bluffing."

Dean chuckles dryly. "Wasn't bluffing."

There hasn't been a whole lot to bluff about since he arrived in Antarctica. The danger is way too real.

Ellen coughs weakly and winces as Sam carefully eases the crucifix off of her scorched breast. It has left a nasty cross-shaped burn like some kind of tattoo, but it will heal. Probably. They untie her and she sits up rubbing her wrists. She is clearly a little disoriented, but herself again.

"What in the name of holy Hell just happened?" she demands, worried. "I- I was..." Her hands go to her neck.

Sam thinks fast. "It was Campbell. Filthy creep slipped you a roofy, the degenerate freak."

"Seriously?" She wonders why he would bother when she was so up for it. "The old pervert! Who'da guessed he was into date rape? He came over such a regular guy."

"The regular-looking perverts, they're the worst," comments Sam.

They help her to her wobbly feet and she notices the new arrival, Dean, for the first time. She flashes him a woozy smile.

"And who're you, handsome? Relief plane come early, Sam? The regular pilot's not this cute."

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, no plane yet. I'm Dean, Sam's brother. How I got here is, well, let's say it's classified."

Ellen's shapely eyebrows shoot up in astonishment. "Classified, huh?"

"Ma'am." Dean assumes what he thinks of as a military hero face.

Slightly shell-shocked, Sam tries not to laugh hysterically.

"C'mon, Ellen. You deserve a drink."

TBC

A/N: Looks like everything is peaceful and peachy. But Dean is still here. Next chapter soon.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: At least they managed to save one of the team. And that's it right? But Dean is still here.

Howlround (Chapter XI) by frostygossamer

The brothers guide Ellen back to the mess hall and they all flop down at the table. Dean pours Ellen a shot of whiskey as a pick-me-up and has one himself. As Sam hands Ellen the first-aid kit, he shoots Dean a disapproving look, which he ignores. Ellen downs the liquor and relaxes with a long sigh.

Dean gets down to business. "We had to take Campbell out. We've been, uh, keeping tabs on him for a while. Guy was a dangerous psycho. Seems like he was poisoning your core samples with some lethal new strain of, um, Bird Flu, Ebola, or worse. He planned to hold the Australian government and the rest of the world to ransom."

"Yeah, and it looks like the douchebag offed Roy, Walt and Walker when they got in his way," Sam adds as an afterthought, eyeing his brother who nods.

"Holy freakin' Moses!" gasps Ellen, accepting a second shot.

She knocks back the slug and searches out a tube of burn cream in the kit. Unbuttoning her shirt a little more, she begins to apply it to her damaged skin.

"Yeah, and now we gotta sterilize the entire station to prevent the contagion spreading." Sam is getting into their cover story now.

Dean's eyes are drawn inexorably to Ellen's cleavage. He finds it kind of distracting. She knows it.

"Uh, um," he stammers, then forces his mind back on topic. "We, uh, can't take any chances. It's gonna need some serious explosives. We gotta purge the whole site."

Ellen, as a microbiology specialist, gets the importance of locking the station down and preserving the purity of the Antarctic Zone. Hell, they are supposed to take their waste back home when they leave. No way can they leave deadly contamination behind. Take nothing but pictures; leave nothing but footprints, the ecologist's motto.

"Copy, boys," she agrees. "I can help. Rufus showed me some of his tricks with C-4."

They rapidly calculate how many charges they will need to vaporize the ice-station. After a time, Sam begins to watch his brother curiously.

"Guess we got this in hand. So, uh, why are you still here?" he wonders.

"No freakin' clue," Dean replies.

Sometimes he wishes he listened to Kevin more but the kid's sciency stuff got dull real fast.

Ellen casually asks, "By the bye, what happened to Rufus and Bobby?"

Sam's eyes narrow. "They tried to make it to the explosives store but they never came back."

A sudden doubt makes him glance questioningly at Dean, but his brother makes a hand gesture with forefinger and thumb.

"Campbell," he mouths.

Sam curses softly. He liked Singer and his pal Turner, two guys old enough to see life for the big joke it is. Dean gets up from the table and moves across the room out of Ellen's earshot, motioning for Sam to follow. They confab by the coffeemaker.

"What've we missed?" Dean hisses. "The demons are all toast, right? I oughta be nothing but a wet dream by now."

That metaphor disturbs Sam in more than one way. Before he can comment, they are interrupted by Ellen.

"Hey, boys, what about the doc? Has anyone looked in on Crowley lately? I was gonna go take him some hot soup. He's gotta be freezing his ass off out there. Even a condemned man needs to eat."

Dean's ears prick up. "Crowley's the little guy I popped on the noodle, right?"

Sam's mouth drops open. "You- YOU whacked Doc Crowley over the head? Damn it, we all thought he was talking crap back when we figured HE killed Walt."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Earth to Sam? That was me. I killed Walt. Where's Crowley?"

"We locked him in the snowcat garage with the bodies of the, uh, your victims."

Sam's brother twists his face and heaves an disbelieving sigh.

"You locked up the creepy guy ALONE in an isolated freakin' shack? Are you crazy? Jeez, I SAW this movie."

"What freakin' movie?"

Dean raises his eyes to heaven at his supposedly intelligent kid brother's slow-wittedness.

"'What movie?' 'The Thing', you dumb-ass. That guy they left in the shack alone? It turns out he was a freakin' thing-monster all the damn time. We gotta get out there and waste his demonic ass like yesterday."

Sam humphs. Sometimes his brother's obsession with the horror movie genre worries him.

"Dean, this is NOT some movie. If YOU killed Walt then Doc Crowley's an innocent man. We gotta go let him free."

"Like hell we'll let him go free," growls Dean. "We gotta neutralize his skanky ass before he builds himself a freakin' anti-gravity machine, or whatever, and hightails it outta here with that Croatoan crap."

Not entirely convinced and continuing to grumble, Sam stomps to his room to get his snow gear back on.

~O~

Outside the blizzard has worsened again and the corrugated hut is near invisible from where the Winchesters stand in the main building's entrance. Sam prods his brother and hands him a pair of goggles. Without protection the dizzying flurry of snow may temporarily blind them. The hut's padlock key from Campbell's office safe is in his pocket. He passes his brother the end of the rope he has lashed around his own waist.

"Put these on and tie this around yourself. Keep directly behind me. This is the stuff they call White Death. Guy could get completely lost in ten paces."

Dean scoffs but does as he is told. He can't argue with Sam as he has already experienced how easy it is to get disoriented in a snowstorm half as thick as this.

They set off to trudge the two hundred some yards to the other building one arduous step at a time, Dean walking in his larger brother's sizeable boot marks. They continue to argue throughout the short trip until they pull up at the stoutly padlocked door of the garage and pause to listen.

Surprisingly, sounds of industry greet them from inside the hut.

After listening at the garage door for a couple minutes, Sam turns to his brother. Dean is shading his eyes with a gloved hand as he scours the snow-veiled sky for albatrosses. Sam bats his hand away and leans close to his ear.

"What the hell you think he's doing in there?"

"Building a scale model of Noah's Ark from toothpicks?" suggests Dean, sarcastically.

The muted sound of a raised voice floats from inside. Doc Crowley is issuing orders.

"Hey, butterfingers, pick that up. Do I have to do everything myself? Gimme that. Now go and install the ignition system before I install my boot up your arse. Call yourself a mechanic? And you! Put down that bloody crate and come over here. I need a tech for this."

"Who's he talking to?" Sam dreads the obvious answer.

"Who else? Walt, Roy and Walker. The Evil freakin' Dead."

Sam's eyes widen. "This does NOT sound good."

He shivers, but not from the cold. So Crowley WAS a demon all along? And he seems to have reanimated the discarded empties left when Dean evicted their demon occupants. Nasty. Dean reaches inside his jacket for his demon knife.

"What I wouldn't give for a freakin' boomstick right now. Two against four? Hmm. Tough odds hand to hand."

In answer, Sam pulls a pair of Very pistols from the capacious pockets of his windbreaker.

"To signal incoming planes in bad weather. Can be lethal at close range, so I'm told."

He hands Dean a pistol and digs out a handful of Very lights, flares coloured to stand out against the snow.

Dean snorts and accepts the pistol. "Better than nothing, I guess."

The brothers load up. With a flare gun in one fist and a demon knife handy, Dean gingerly turns the key in the padlock. Sam stands behind him also armed with a pistol and Roy's knife. The lock falls open with scarcely a click.

"OK," hisses Dean. "Surprise is on our side. We go in blazing. I'll take Crowley. You deal with the mooks."

With that he takes a step back and boots in the door. It sails on its hinges, battering the corrugated wall of the hut before rebounding back to catch him on the shoulder as he barges in.

His first flare torpedoes directly for dead-eyed Z-Walt, taking his lifeless head clean off of his shoulders in a pyrotechnic show of blood-red flash and flame. Z-Walt's body takes another step before falling like a felled tree. Dean quickly loads another.

"Jeez," gasps Dean. "Zombies were all we freakin' needed."

Sam piles in behind him as his brother's gaze seeks out Crowley. Z-Roy shambles across the room moaning, hands reaching for Sam's throat. Sam dives for his knees, pulling him down to the damp cement floor. Z-Roy groans manically as Sam drives his demon knife into his jugular. But he doesn't stop thrashing.

"Of course he won't die," Sam scolds himself. "Already dead, remember?" he grunts, on his knees fumbling with his pistol. "Freakin' World War Z!"

Dean rushes Crowley with his demon knife but the demonic doctor uses the lumbering fish-eyed hulk that used to be Walker as an inhuman shield. Z-Walker knocks the blade from Dean's hand with a blind wave of his arm. Dean rapidly fires his second flare. It only takes off Z-Walker's arm and explodes in a shower of azure sparks against a stack of crates. Crowley has dodged out of shot.

"Crap!" Dean growls.

Z-Roy's hands are tightening on Sam's neck as he pressed the muzzle of his Very pistol up against the zombie's already ravaged throat. Sam grits his teeth and pulls the trigger. There is a dull muffled 'fumpf' and Z-Roy falls in two parts, body limp as a rag doll, head rolling disgustingly aside. Sam gets to his feet, brushing golden sparkles from his stomach, and hurriedly loads another flare as he looks around for his brother.

"Hell no!" Sam's heart sinks. "Dean!"

The little doctor is as slippery as soap and Z-Walker is a higher-functioning zombie than Z-Walt. Z-Walker has pinned Dean against the big cat, smashing first the flare gun then knife from his grip. Crowley jeers as Z-Walker's white teeth sink into their captive's neck.

"Sam!" A groan of warning bursts from Dean's throat.

Abruptly, Sam steps up behind Z-Walker and busts a cap in his spine. Sparks shoot from the belly of his corpse like a fountain of emerald pyrotechnics. Z-Walker's backbone cracks and he slumps to the floor. His knees smashing on the concrete, he sprawls slack at Dean's feet.

Dean rubs his neck. The skin is torn, but that can't matter now. The zombie spittle won't affect him till he sleeps and there will be no time to sleep if they are going to get off of this island continent alive.

Crowley makes for the door, reckless enough to run out into the deadly storm. He struggles to make three or four steps before falling forward on his face in the deepening snowdrifts. Dean catches him up and drags him back inside by the collar of his snow-jacket.

"Uh-uh. You're staying right here, buddy."

Sam scoops Dean's knife off of the floor and hands it to his brother. Dean takes it delicately and wraps his fingers around the hilt.

"Looks like you demons' ugly freakin' plan has been one massive fail. We dealt with Campbell and his pack of hell-spawn. Now there's only you left. Feel special?"

He growls and presses the tip of his demon knife against the smaller guy's throat.

Crowley's eyes bulge. "Easy there, tiger," he gasps.

Sam feels uneasy about the murderous look in his brother's eyes. Perhaps the doctor could be of some use to them alive.

"Wait up," he interrupts. "What exactly did you need those three zombies for?"

"Parts and labour," grunts Crowley. "It's not like they were doing anything, lying around gathering dust. So I thought, why not upcycle."

"Parts," repeats Dean, curling his lip. "Freakin' douchebag."

"Well, not parts precisely. Raw materials. I needed their blood. Dead men's blood - no go. Zombie blood - strictly low octane but..."

"Why?" demands Sam, slightly disgusted. "What in hell would you need ANY kinda blood for?"

Crowley squirms. Dean is holding him so high his feet barely touch the ground.

"Call off your ape here and I'll tell you. You may find it interesting."

Sam puts his hand on Dean's arm. After a moment, Dean relaxes his hold on the bogus doctor a scooch and sets him on his heels. Crowley straightens his collar.

"It's my ticket out of this gobforsaken fag end of Gondwanaland. It's-"

"Fuel for an anti-gravity machine! What did I say?" cuts in Dean, triumphantly. "You built yourself some kinda hoodoo escape vehicle that burns that crap."

Sam is puzzled. "So you can't just, I dunno, wriggle your goddamn nose and 'zap' your ass wherever?"

"If only," Crowley sighs. "You see, boys, there's no support for long range magic down here in the Antarctic. Dead continent, hmm? No ley lines. No stone circles. No ancient burial grounds. No spirits. No occult power to tap into. Nada. So no, no vehicle. And I can't 'zap' myself anywhere. If it wasn't for the residual lifeforce in this natty meatsuit and the reviving power of a good oolong I wouldn't even be here now."

"So those black smokers...?" Dean wonders aloud. He has seen that demon smoke-out ploy more than once.

"So much Scotch Mist, my friends." Crowley shakes his head and cracks a smile. Evidently that tickles him.

"You were gonna book it outta here all by your snaky-ass self," summarizes Sam.

"Certainly," agrees Crowley. "Hey, I was only sent here to audit the show. This one was Campbell's gig. He could sink or swim by his own efforts. I wouldn't lose any sleep."

Trust the fuglies to have no sense of solidarity.

"Campbell and his stooges, they could go whistle, huh?"

Crowley laughs. "They seemed to run into a titchy little snag. Namely an 'interstellar' visitor with a taste for murder. Once it began taking the pawns off the board I thought I'd leave them to it." He glances toward Dean. "I suppose that would be you, the fresh face around here. A little too pretty for a spacemonster, I'd say."

Dean doesn't appreciate the compliment and growls at him under his breath. The demon doc shoots Sam an imploring look and holds up his hands.

"Dunno about you boys, but I'm ready to make a brisk exit from this icy wasteland. What do you say? The fires of Hell have never seemed more appealing. I'm feeling more than a little homesick."

"Without a vehicle, how're you gonna work that?" snaps Dean.

"Ah," Crowley smirks. "A little trick we call a 'Goblet of Blood'. That's why I needed those three quarts of zombie type A from my merry men here. Old magic but very reliable. With the wind in the right direction, I can raise Hell even from here and have THEM summon ME back home."

He kicks aside a tarp revealing a large shallow bowl of turgid blood. The bowl is decorated with intricate figuring in silver.

"I supersized and used pure silver sigils to boost the mojo up to eleven. Only problem was, not a lot of pure silver to hand. Had to melt down the little keepsakes I confiscated from Walker for the figuration. And I was about to try making a call downstairs when you two clods stormed in with your size 12 boots."

Dean isn't taking any of this on board. "That's a crock of crap, Crowley."

Crowley glances down at the bowl of fetid fluid and shrugs.

"You could call it that," he admits then raises one eyebrow. "And a magic feather ISN'T?"

Dean hisses. How does this guy know about Kevin's heirloom feather? "How do you-?"

"What?" Crowley laughs. "You didn't think you were dealing with some new discovery of science? Angel feathers are very, VERY old magic. Black Arts 101, lovey."

Dean scowls. Even Kevin couldn't argue his feather's powers could be explained by regular physics.

Sam jumps in. "OK. Bottom line. This stink pond IS your ticket outta here, right? You call up your contact downstairs and he whisks your ass outta here. Got any contacts Earthside? On the mainland?" He glances meaningfully at Dean.

Crowley sees where he is going and taps his nose with a finger. "That isn't entirely impossible."

That is all Dean needs to hear. As much as he would like to end this demon along with the rest, getting Sam out of Dodge is his first priority. Whatever that takes.

"OK that's it, buttface. We're cleaning up this station then you're gonna take us ALL back to the mainland Demon Air. Where you go on after the party is your own business."

Crowley weighs up the situation. 'Live to fight another day' has always been his watchword.

He chuckles. "Boys, I guess you have a deal."

~O~

They make their way back to the main building. Fortunately the blizzard has again stopped momentarily so they find their way without much difficulty. They run into Ellen beside the main entrance suited up, waiting anxiously for them to get back. She is wearing shades and leaning on a large red plastic toboggan.

"What's happening?" she asks Sam, pulling on her gloves.

"Ellen, it looks like the doc was working with Campbell all along. Dean's gonna keep an eye on him while I go to Rufus's store and get what we need."

"Coming with you," Ellen insists. "Found a sled. Oughta make things easier."

They set off in the direction of the store, Ellen trailing the toboggan behind her.

After watching them disappear into the misty distance, Dean walks Crowley inside the station with a Very pistol pressed against his back, his hand on the demon knife in his own pocket.

"C'mon, douche. We got work to do."

~O~

Sam and Ellen have slogged about halfway to Turner's store when they spot a figure floundering in the snow. Ellen abandons her sled to hurry ahead, only to discover it is Singer white as ash, his whiskers encrusted with ice crystals and with his right arm in a makeshift sling. His right glove is sodden with blood.

"Bobby, what the heck happened to you?" demands Ellen.

She pulls the swooning man against her shoulder for support.

"Campbell," croaks Singer. "The dirtbag pulled a gun on me and Rufus. I went down hard and passed out. When I came to, couple minutes ago, I really thought Rufus was dead, poor guy."

"Campbell? He shot you guys? Jeez!"

"Yeah, and left us to bleed out. Luckily it was so damn cold in there our heart rates musta slowed right the hell down. Rufus is alive but he's comatose. Needs help ASAP."

Sam arrives with the sled in tow.

"Don't worry about that sleaze Campbell," Ellen is telling Singer. "He got a taste of his own damn medicine. Can you make it to the admin block while we go see to Rufus? Sam's brother'll look after you there."

Singer stares up at Sam, confused. Last he heard Sam's brother was back in the US. "Your brother? How'd-"

"It's a long story." Sam grins.

They let Singer hobble on his way and trudge on to the explosives store. Inside they find Turner unconscious. Singer has thrown some sacking over him but he is as cold as death. Ellen checks his breathing with a small mirror. He IS breathing but only just. Sam steps up.

"I'll load him on the sled while you get the whiz-bangs."

He carefully lifts Turner's limp body onto the red plastic tea tray. Ellen comes back with couple cases of C-4 which they add to the sled. Then they begin the slow trudge back to the station.

They catch up with Singer a hundred yards from the main block. He has almost ground to a stop and is mightily relieved to see them.

"Ain't you two a sight..." he gasps.

TBC

A/N: Great, more survivors (hopefully). And Crowley can be a help too. Sometimes. A little more soon.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Back to the ice-station while Sam and Ellen get the explosives. Dean is still here.

Howlround (Chapter XII) by frostygossamer

After Ellen and Sam depart in search of the explosives, Dean sets about clearing out the lab. Crowley perches comfortably on a high stool in cable-tie handcuffs while Dean does the heavy lifting. Again. Maybe he shouldn't have been so hasty to off those zombies?

He collects up every test tube, vial and canister in a big pile in the centre of the floor. Once in a while sniffing something, making a face, and tossing it on the heap, he adds whatever flammable chemicals he can find. This crap has to be vaporized for sure.

"You get your back into it, I'll give you that," comments Crowley. "I had three zombies and they couldn't crate up my movables half as fast." He sighs. "You just can't find decent living-dead labour nowadays."

Dean shoots him a glare that could kill.

"You know you don't HAVE to sit there on your fat ass, douchebag. You COULD try to help. The sooner this gets done the sooner we're all outta here."

Crowley muses on that for a moment. "Suppose I could point out you've overlooked a rack of important microscope slides up here on the cabinet behind me."

Dean grunts and reaches down the rack of slides, adding them to his pile.

"OK. Anything else you were keeping to yourself?"

They startle as a banging from the entrance alerts them to someone's arrival. Dean grabs his knife off of the bench and checks the passageway. He relaxes when he sees it is Sam stomping his boots in the entry.

"Find the Silly Putty, Sammy?"

"Sure. We also found Bobby and Rufus alive, would you believe. One in a bad way. One in a VERY bad way. Ellen's taken them directly to the snowcat garage. We're more than ready to get going."

With Crowley securely manacled in the lab, the two Winchesters go around the whole research station setting up the C-4 detonators on a time delay, meaning to be long gone when the place goes up. They take turns keeping a weather eye on Crowley, who is acting surprisingly submissive.

When they are almost done, Dean draws Sam to one side.

"Sam, I'm kinda feeling it now. The timey-whimey wibbly-wobbly thing. I don't know how much longer I'll be around."

Sam's eyebrows steeple. This should be an emotional moment for them.

"I, uh, Dean, I'm gonna miss you, brother."

Dean punches him on the shoulder. If he doesn't stop him the kid is going to cry. Not good.

"Don't be a wuss, Sam. I'm not going anyplace. This timeline's gonna end for me, is all. Gonna blink out here and, uh, whammo back to the nanosecond before... well, before everything. Something like that. Kevin explained it better. And he said I'm not gonna remember a freakin' thing. Shadows maybe."

Sam isn't completely convinced. An idea occurs to him.

"But, Dean, what about the Grandfather Paradox?"

"Dude, Grandfather WHO?"

His brother gives him a disbelieving frown. Is he really going to start this philosophy jive now?

"Dean, the timeline has changed. You came back here from your future to save me. Now you've saved me you won't need to come back. So what? Back to status quo? We all die just the same?"

He sounds genuinely worried. Dean doesn't like the doubt in Sam's voice. Or the pinched place between his eyebrows.

"Sam, you're NOT gonna die," he growls angrily. "I saved you and I'd keep on saving you whatever. Only that's NOT gonna happen because you were NEVER meant to die. I ALWAYS knew that. Knew it in my bones. All I did was make things RIGHT. That first time, THAT was the paradox. Freakin' demons messed up history and made that happen. And that was their BIGGEST damn mistake."

Sam nods. He hopes Dean has got it right and big brother sure sounds convincing. Feeling a sob welling up, he goes in for a hug. His brother allows the hug one last time. Dean feels good about this. This is what he came here for, to save his Sammy. And it really looks like the kid is going to make it through.

He whispers in his brother's ear, "Promise me, you get back home to Lawrence you'll patch things up with me... with the REAL me. You swear?"

"Sure." Sam sniffs. "Sure, I swear, Dean."

"Because, you know..." Dean looks away. "I should never have let you leave sore that way, Sammy. Hell, I never wanted you to leave at all. If I'd had my way I wouldn't have let you go to college much less overseas. I, uh, I wanted you home."

That is as much truth as Dean can manage right now. It is more than he has ever admitted before. Sam is taken aback.

"Uh, boys?" chimes in Crowley, who is getting a tad antsy in his cuffs. "You two done swapping promise rings? We're on a DEADLINE here. Or am I mistaken?"

They separate, a little reluctant to finally let go. Dean angrily tears off a big swath of duct tape from a roll on the bench.

"We don't need any more of your yak, douchebag."

Crowley ducks away from the tape. "You need me to recite the, uh, incantation."

Dean hesitates for a moment then points to his brother. "Tell it to him. He can do it."

"I can't just say it out loud, you nitwit," the small man complains. "It's a freakin' ritual. Here, Sam. Lemme whisper it in your shell-like."

Sam leans right down and allows him to hiss it in his ear.

"Got it," he says, with the faintest trace of doubt.

Dean slams the tape right over the little guy's yap. "Good. Now let's get to it."

When the explosives are wired up and ready, they all hotfoot it to join up with Ellen and the others in the tractor garage.

At last they are going home.

~O~

When the Winchesters and Crowley make it to the Quonset hut, they find Ellen nursing the two sick guys, Singer and Turner. Turner is still out and Singer is bravely but barely hanging on.

"Thank God," breathes Ellen, relieved to see them arrive. "I was about to go look for you guys."

Singer is sitting on a wood crate looking pale but attempting to keep up his spirits so as not to unduly alarm Ellen. Despite his bravado he looks close to passing out. Turner is lying immobile on the toboggan wrapped in a couple scratchy blankets. Ellen has been massaging his hands and feet to try to maintain some vestige of circulation.

She gives Dean an odd look because he is starting to get, frankly, out of phase with reality. There is a faint blue aura around him that makes him pop out against the background and somehow he seems almost hard to focus on.

"You OK, Dean?" she asks, uncertainly. "You look so-"

Sam interrupts her. "It's all right, Ellen. Don't you worry."

Slipping away from Dean, Crowley pushes past them both and hurries toward his Goblet. Once between the bowl and the others his manner changes. Despite his hand-ties, from someplace he picks up a Luger and trains it on the humans.

He tries to speak then rolls his eyes. Putting the barrel of the pistol to his mouth, he fires a shot through the tough adhesive tape that covers his face, bursting the gag open. The bullet enters his mouth and exits his left cheek, leaving a ragged hole which instantly knits up. Those who haven't seen that trick before quail in shock.

Crowley laughs wickedly. "This is the chapter where I make my dastardly escape from this frosty island continent and abandon you chumps to your chilly fate. Did I forget to mention I was always gonna need the energy of that big boom-bang-kerrang to jump me out of here? Nice of you both to set it up after Campbell's shower dropped out of the picture."

He moves toward the edge of the Goblet and crouches, stirring the coagulating blood with his finger and muttering a swift alakazam. The blood starts to boil and hiss and a red glow begins to rise around the bowl, roiling and flickering. After a couple seconds the flickering stops but the crackling, high-pitched whine continues, assaulting their ears. He has made a connection.

"Speak!" a deep, echoing voice booms over the din.

Crowley grins, turning to his audience. "Thank you, boys and girls, but now you've served your purpose I can handle the rest on my own. The fun question is, do I put a bullet in each of your skulls or do I leave you all to freeze to death on the ice? Hmm. Tough choice."

Ellen and the old guys flinch from the sight of the gun. Only the Winchesters stand tall and defiant.

"You bastard, Crowley," yells Sam, stepping forward. "We had a deal-"

Dean doesn't waste words. Shouldering Sam aside, he takes a flying leap at the diminutive demon doctor and tackles him to the hard cement floor.

Wallop!

"Oh, no you freakin' don't!" he growls.

They roll around on the ground as Dean struggles to wrest the Luger from Crowley's fingers. The smaller man is as hard to hold on to as an angry tomcat, but Dean succeeds in knocking the semiautomatic from his hand. Sam swoops to pick it up and aims it right at the demon's temple.

All at once, there is a tiny lurch in reality. Crowley, flat on his back, and Dean, lying on top of the demon using his weight to pin him, grasping his lapels in bunched fists, flip in and out of focus.

The onlookers see a weird twist in the image and a strange dislocation of the pair from their surroundings. With a gut-churning wrench and a nails-on-the-blackboard screak, Dean slips sideways out of this dimension, dragging Crowley with him. They are gone like the darkness when a light comes on. Snap!

"Jeez," shrieks Ellen, reaching out. "Where the hell did they go? Sam, your brother!"

"It's OK." Sam pulls her away. "Dean had someplace else to be."

With a bewildered Ellen supporting Singer and Sam carrying the inert Turner in his arms, they all step up to the Goblet and tightly link hands.

"We gotta do this while the line is still open," hollers Sam. "Don't worry, everyone. I know the incantation."

"Incantation?" repeats Singer, confused and a little alarmed. "What in hairy hell!"

Sam hopes what he remembers of college Latin will get him through. He repeats the magic formula praying it will work.

Again the blood boils and bubbles. The red glow rises and envelopes them then settles like a veil between them and their surroundings. The light play stills and again the voice is heard.

"State your destination," now sounding a little tetchier.

Sam takes a deep breath. "Get us to mainland Tasmania. Above ground. Today."

He doesn't dare try anyplace further. As it is he can't be sure Crowley didn't give him a crap pass code that will get them all killed. He can only hope Crowley realized he could have wound up travelling with them and hedged his bets.

They squeeze each other's hands as they wait for some kind of an answer.

Across the way the abandoned main complex of the ice-station stands deserted and silent. Silent save for a whisper of a click, click, click as the timer mechanism on the first C-4 charge counts down to the big finale.

Inside the detonator an electical discharge is triggered, swiftly succeeded by a chemical reaction within the explosive. In an instant, the C-4 ignites and reaches the point of no return. Detonation ensues.

BOOM!

Like a string of beads, the charges carefully hand-formed by Sam and Ellen observe the same procedure, destroying one by one sleeping accommodations, radio shack and mess hall.

BOOM-BANG-BOOM!

Cooking gas cylinders in the kitchen add to the devastation of the mess. In Campbell's office, papers, books, printouts burst into orange flame. In Ellen's lab, the exhaustive pile of flammables built by Dean go up.

BOOM-BANG-KABLOOEY!

Huge Attraction erupts in a tornado of brilliant fire and flame, and yeah, probably a little methane.

Less than a heartbeat later, a column of scarlet light shoots up from the Goblet and engulfs the survivors, a final desparate word on Sam's lips.

"NOW!"

The firestorm is so intense its reflection in the snow-filled clouds hovering over the southernmost continent can be plainly seen from Tasmania. A spike registers on seismographs all over southern Australasia.

TBC

A/N: Did it work? Just one more little chapter to come. Updating soon.


	13. Chapter 13: Postlude

A/N: At last the final chapter. We'll start with what became of Dean.

Howlround (Chapter XIII: Postlude)

Timeline: Somewhere and Nowhere

Like ice in a whiskey glass, like snow in summer, like sugar in a coffee cup, from his soles to his spiky hair, Dean melts.

Into the Milky Way, into the universe, into the nothingness, he melts completely away.

Soon there is nothing left of him, nothing but fragments of memory, images, shadows, nothing but dreams.

Dean's dreams, that is, as he lies on his belly, cuddled up alone on his memory-foam mattress, snug under a fluffy duck-down comforter, back home in Kansas. He dreams of everything he wants, everything he fears, everything he needs.

His brother Sam.

Scratching his left ear, Dean turns over onto his back and lets an arm fall over his eyes. It's 3am and the muted sound coming from his TV barely reaches him. Blurry colours flicker around his master bedroom, dappling the walls. He groans, not quite awake, lips mouthing words that flutter through his head.

"Sam... What...? Don't... No... Sammy."

At quarter after 3 the unwatched movie ends, the TV falls silent, the room darkens and Dean drifts back into deeper slumber, mercifully dreamless.

At eight o'clock he drags his mussy head out of bed, drawn by a craving for black coffee and ice cream.

~O~

Timeline: Near Lawrence KA - Two months from today

Streaking across the sky, a small dark mass of cold heat hurtles toward the Earth. It embeds itself in a haystack on farmland right outside Lawrence where it smoulders, giving off a foul black smoke.

Seconds later a short dapper man pushes his way out of the stack. Taking a small clothesbrush from his pocket, he brushes down his dark suit, pausing once or twice to extract the odd stray whisp of straw from here and there.

"Bloody fly-by-wire," he grouches.

Crowley has finally made it back to Earth from some kind of spacy postmortem way station on Venus, where he spent several eons mulling over the events at Huge Attraction and how he could meddle. He has now returned two Earth months later to put his ideas into action.

He heads for the campus of the University of Kansas.

~O~

Timeline: Port Arthur, Tasmania - Today

In a messy basement garage in Tasmania, knee-deep in discarded takeout containers and dirty laundry, two teenage death metal fans get the shock of their gloomy young lives. Doped out of their minds on locoweed, they didn't really expect the ritual they found on the net would do anything much, let alone conjure four living, breathing people out of the ether. In snowsuits no less.

Sam steps out of the chalk circle, half carrying Turner, followed by Ellen and Singer. He waves away fumes with his free hand and glances around.

"Where is this exactly?"

The taller kid, an acned youth, mumbles, "It's my dad's place," then giggles feebly.

Sam glares at him. "Dude, I mean where as in what town, what country, what, uh, date."

"P-Port Arthur, Australia," stutters the shorter kid, in a sullen tone. "Today, yeah?"

This one might be a girl, but it is hard to tell in all that heavy black eye-makeup and with its dirty bangs hanging down over its face. Sam scowls, kicking at their smouldering offerings, a few KFC bones and a bunch of herbs.

"Who told you to do this?"

The kids look at each other. "It's, uh, it's from the Dead Monkeys' fan site," explains the short one.

"Yeah, you play their first album backward, right? And you write down the instructions," adds the tall one. "It's cool, man."

Amateurs! Sam laughs dryly. "OK, you two listen good. You were lucky this time, guys. But you do NOT try this again. You hear? Next time you could get more than you can handle."

The two kids nod weakly in unison. This grumpy guy is already more than they expected to deal with.

Sam holds out his hand. "Phone."

The shorter youth fumbles in the pocket of its hoodie and brings out a smartphone encrusted with plastic spangles and hands it over. Sam hits the switch that opens the garage door and the survivors stagger out into the night. Inside, the kids stand in dumb silence for a moment.

"What just happened?" asks one.

The other one shakes its head. "Dude, I dunno but this weed is definitely bad-ass."

Outside in the street. "What now?" Singer asks Sam.

"Now we get our asses to a freakin' hospital."

Sam dials the emergency number 000 and they wait for an ambulance.

~O~

Timeline: Royal Hobart Hospital, Hobart, Tasmania

Several weeks pass before Sam finally gets to set foot on Kansan dirt again. The team first have to spend a little time under observation at the Royal Hobart Hospital. Having checked in Turner and Singer, Ellen insists she and Sam have thorough health checks also.

"We gotta make doubly sure we didn't schlep over anything... nasty."

Sam has to agree and he goes along because otherwise she would have him hunted down by the CDC before he can get back to the Sunflower State.

Singer and Turner are booked in for a while longer. Though rallying now, Turner is still under specialist care and his old friend Singer remains stationed at his bedside. Nonetheless he manages a weak smile and a joke before Sam takes off for the airport.

"Gonna get me the number of a hot nurse before you go, huh Sam?" he asks, with a toothy grin. "Those ice maidens in ICU could use a little more heat."

"Sure," chuckles Singer. "Like you could handle a hottie right now, old man."

Turning to Sam he continues, "And remember me to your brother when he gets back from wherever. We got him to thank for our lives. And maybe more that us, I'd guess."

Luckily neither Singer nor Turner saw much of Dean's exit from Antarctica. Sam nods and shakes both their hands before slipping out the door, duffel bag on his shoulder, air tickets home safely in his pocket. The university have signed off on all their expenses.

On the plane home he ponders the cover story he and Ellen cooked up for the authorities.

The story is, while taking their regular deep samples they struck a dangerously unstable methane bubble under the ice-sheet. Sadly Campbell, Walker, Walt and Roy didn't survive the initial blast. Turner and Singer were injured by fragments of exploding equipment. Ellen was able to get the bullet out of Turner's chest wound back on the station and Singer's was a through and through so their explanation didn't look too screwy.

As this was right about the time their radio went down, the survivors couldn't raise help and were forced to flee the Antarctic base in an inflatable boat with an improvised engine. They claimed the make-believe vessel foundered someplace right off of the Tasmanian coast and Sam and Ellen were able to swim ashore towing the two sick guys.

It was hardly credible horse-puckey but who was going to question it? The four of them did make it back to civilization somehow. The truth was even harder to swallow. Luckily, the Tasmania Police gave them a wave through or they could all have been in deep doo-doo. The local press even praised them as plucky survivors. If only they knew exactly HOW plucky they all were.

Before waving him off on the first hop of his long journey home, Ellen pressed a kiss to Sam's cheek.

"Say hi to your brother for me," she whispered. "We owe him."

The university has communicated with their emergency contacts already, but Sam hasn't actually spoken with his brother yet.

Given the mystery of Dean's recent supposedly classified activities, Ellen can only guess what secret military or government agency he might be working for. This once she doesn't feel her peacenik credentials oblige her to spill the beans on his activities. She is just deeply grateful he was there for them.

"Guess no one will ever know what REALLY happened out there," she comments, meaningfully. "Or what he did for us."

"I will," responds Sam.

It certainly isn't anything HE will ever forget.

~O~

Timeline: Winchester residence - Two months from today

Sam stands on Dean's front porch several minutes wondering what kind of reception he will get when he rings the doorbell. The last time he stood in this exact place things didn't go the way he expected. Has anything changed this time around? Is Carmen still in residence? Sam guesses he can work around the chick but what about Dean? How does he feel about Sam?

He knows how Dean hurt after the Antarctic 'incident' went down, first time around. The version where Sam didn't survive. The poor jerk was crazy, broken and reckless enough to throw away his own life on a mad dash through time. That Dean had two years and more of regret to set aside their differences, to see exactly how unimportant their petty quarrels really were compared to what they had together as brothers.

But what will the Dean who never went through it all have to say? Will he still be cranky and pissed at Sam for deserting him without a word? Was this Dean able to forgive?

As Sam's finger hovers over the bell push, the door is suddenly snatched open from inside.

"Dude, you gonna stand out there all day catching rays?" demands his brother, sharply.

"I- I-" stammers Sam.

But then Dean pulls his kid brother into a big bear hug, right on the step.

"Jeez, it's been too long, Sammy. Don't you EVER walk out on me again. You hear?"

Sam relaxes into his big brother's almost too tight embrace. Great. Dean isn't angry with him.

He chuckles. "Don't worry, man. Never gonna do that again. I'm home, Dean. Home for good."

Dean closes his eyes for a second. This is the one thing he has ever prayed for and the one thing he could never admit to wanting without sounding like an over-controlling surrogate parent. After a long moment, he slaps Sam on the back and releases him.

"Awesome," he pronounces then turns and heads in the kitchen. "You hungry?"

Sam is a little dazed by his reception. Dean isn't normally this way. After their last meeting, he has got to be at least a little mad with him. And here he is offering him love in the form of food, like an Italian grandmother.

He follows his brother inside. "Whaddya think? I haven't eaten a REAL meal since-"

"Since I fixed you one," finishes Dean with a chuckle.

Sam smiles. "Right."

Dean yanks open his fridge and begins to pull out packages of food. He points at the kitchen table with the end of a breakfast sausage.

"Take a load off, why don't ya."

Sam pulls up a chair, plunks his ass and sighs. It is so GOOD to be back.

Dean turns up the heat under a big frypan and begins to rustle Sam up a satisfying grease-fest, something he has always loved doing for his kid brother. He continues chatting to Sam over his shoulder as he pushes things around in the pan.

"Got your update. Sounds like you musta had Lady Luck on your side this time. Hell of a thing that fire. Hope they treated you OK in that Aussie hospital. Maybe you should go get yourself a check up with a real American-"

"No, no," Sam interrupts him. "I've seen enough of hospitals and doctors, Dean. I'm fine. Could use a little R&R maybe. That's all"

When a plate piled high with meat is deposited in front of him, Sam smiles. This is why he isn't EXACTLY a vegetarian. Sometimes he has to eat close to a whole animal to placate Dean. And after everything, Dean deserves to be placated. He dives in.

"Good, huh? That little lot'll sort you out but good."

Dean grins as he sits down across from him, chomping on a sausage that didn't make it out of the pan in good shape.

Sam swallows his mouthful before replying. "Awesome. Uh, love you, bro."

Dean tenses. That was unexpected. He has never really known how he is meant to respond to THAT word from his kid brother. They are two grown men, for God's sake, not sappy teen chicks. The big guy knows better than to try it too often, but sometimes he slips one by to catch Dean unawares.

He clears his throat. "Backacha, Sammy." Good save.

After a few moments of mutual chewing, Dean clears his throat again.

"Here's a dumb thing. When I got your first email from the hospital in Hobart..."

Sam nods, his mouth full again. "Saying I'd be back stateside a little earlier than expected, what with the methane explosion at the ice-station and having to evacuate and all, sure."

Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"It gave me kinduva, uh, deja vu tingle. For one second I thought... See, I'd been having these weird-ass dreams..."

Sam drops his knife and fork on his plate. "Dreams? You had dreams? About me?"

"Well... nightmares, kinda. Messed-up night-sweats with snow and- and fire, would you believe it? And there were freakin' ice-monsters and crazy crap like that. Bottom line, I dreamed those things they..." He takes a deep breath. "Dreamed they got you, Sam. I tell you, gonna ditch the booze. It's screwing with my head."

Sam takes a breath. What Dean is talking about sounds all too familiar. But how did he know?

"So you guessed that email was gonna be bad news, huh?"

"The worst, Sammy. Said it was dumb."

Were these some of the shadows Dean said his friend Kevin speculated about? It was probably too much to expect, after everything Dean went through, it wouldn't leave at least a little dark residue.

"No, Dean. It's not dumb."

He grabs his elder brother's right hand and holds it tight in his two big paws, making Dean even more uncomfortable.

"Man, things happened down there, bad things, worse than you know."

"Yeah? Dean looks concerned.

"I could have died back there. But you got me through."

"Me?" Dean sounds sceptical. "What did I do?"

What didn't he do? Sam doesn't know where to start. Not yet anyway. Dean is beginning to wonder whether his brother isn't more stressed out from his experiences than he first thought.

"You gave me strength, Dean. You always have. Because you're a truly awesome brother."

OK, so THIS Dean didn't build and steal a Time Machine to travel back, fight hand to hand with a bunch of scheming demons and save his ass from certain death. But he WOULD. Sam knows that now. Any doubts he has ever had about how much his brother loves him are gone for good.

"Dude, that second bedroom had better be free because I'm moving in."

Dean grins. "Sammy, it's all yours."

Sam lets go Dean's hand and returns to his meal with renewed gusto. The elder Winchester watches him fondly for a moment before commenting.

"Guess it WAS the booze gave me the nightmares. But then again I did kinda pass out in the middle of a Kurt Russell DVD marathon that one time."

~O~

One evening a demon walks into a bar in the student quarter of town. He strolls past a heavyset guy in a Springsteen shirt and jerks a thumb. The guy slides from his barstool and silently slopes off with his beer. The demon hitches himself up onto his vacated stool and smiles at the dejected young Asian-American man clutching an almost empty beer glass in the next seat.

He points out a certain malt behind the bar and tells the barkeep, "And another for the kid."

Kevin smiles at him weakly as the bartender serves them their drinks.

"Thought I'd find you here," says the demon.

Kevin's brow wrinkles quizzically. "Do I know you?"

The new arrival chuckles, extending a hand.

"The name's Crowley. I'm here to propose a deal, Kevin. I hear you're a struggling inventor and I wanna throw a big wad of dosh your way."

Kevin scrutinizes this stranger suspiciously. "Who put you up to this? My mom?"

Crowley laughs. "Mrs. Tran is a redoubtable woman, Kevin, but no. This is a genuine offer. For reasons of my own, I'd like to finance your clever little project."

Kevin regards him doubtfully for a moment.

"So it doesn't bother you my invention is based off of this?"

He pulls the long, slim box containing his angel feather from his pocket. He opens the lid and thrusts it at his prospective investor.

Crowley eyes the box greedily. "Throughout the history of man, many of his greatest innovations have come from far less, Kevin my boy."

Smiling, he takes the box, lifts out the glimmering feather and twirls it in his fingers, admiring its scintillating colours.

Suddenly the thing bursts into plumes of blue flame, and in an instant is reduced to nothing more than a pile of silvery ash on the bar.

Pfft!

"Bugger!" growls the demon, pulling a big white hanky from his pocket to wipe his fingers.

Crowley should have known the big G wasn't about to let a demon get his hands on angel mojo. He really should have gotten a minion to retrieve the feather. The look on his face makes Kevin begin to titter tipsily.

He should be angry or disappointed or something. But over the last few months, he has come to hate that damned angel feather. Why did he let his mother talk him into messing with it in the first place? He is a serious scientist, damn it. Well, now it has gone and with it months of research. Maybe he should have stuck with mathematics. He knew where he was with bi-quadratic polynomials. He begins to laugh out loud.

Time travel sucks anyway. Who in their right mind would even want to hop around in time? They would have to be some nut crazy for fame, or wealth, or maybe revenge? Why would Kevin want to help a wackjob like that? If there IS someone out there with a nobler purpose, Kevin has yet to hear about it.

He gets to his wobbly feet, unable to speak for laughing, and totters out of the building.

Crowley watches him go with a raised eyebrow.

"Goddamn angels," he mutters darkly, then snaps his fingers and... vanishes.

Poof!

The End

A/N: That's it, friends. I hope you enjoyed my story. Thanks, everyone, for your reviews, favourites and follows.


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